


Sidereal

by cactus_junkie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Beads, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Arson, Bondage, Collars, Comfort/Angst, Dark Sherlock, Dildos, Dom!Sherlock Holmes, Dom/sub, Double Anal Penetration, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flogging, Gags, Ice Play, Jealous Sherlock, John is a Saint, Med Student John, Multi, Murder, My OC is a complete dick, Mycroft's Meddling, Nipple Clamps, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor John, Possessive Sherlock, Prostate Massage, Rimming, S&M, Sensory Deprivation, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship, Threesome - M/M/M, Violence, Wax Play, sub!John Watson, toplock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:05:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4405661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactus_junkie/pseuds/cactus_junkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An abusive relationship, a serial arsonist come serial killer, a questionable and inappropriate encounter in the morgue and a few small revelations was all it took for John Watson to realise that Sherlock Holmes was all he needed and all he ever would. </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story on AO3, and also my first Sherlock fanfic, so I can guarantee you something will go wrong.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

John had known from an early age that "vanilla" sex didn't interest him. As soon as he'd discovered porn as a teenager, and found that regular, boring old blowjobs and moaning women didn't do much else but amuse him, he had delved deeper. 

And then, he fell very happily head first into the world of fetishes and BDSM and kinks. 

It didn't take long for John to realise that he was far more attracted to men, and that his very core longed for a dominant partner. At first, it terrified him that he was aroused by pain and humiliation, but he became so sure of his orientation that it didn't bother him for too long. He spent his teenage years brooding over the fact that he was never going to meet someone who was also interested in the whole Dominate and Submissive dynamics, convinced that he would never have a Dom. However, within his first weeks of starting his time as a student at Barts in London to become a surgeon, he found himself pursued by his chemistry professor. 

Oliver Forrester was twenty years older than him, with John being eighteen and Oliver thirty eight. He looked younger though, and it honestly appealed to John more than anything else that Oliver was older than him. He was a favourite amongst students, and his classes were actually engaging. He somehow managed to maintain the highest attendance out of all the other med student classes, and had good pass rates. He was tall, with alluring hazel eyes and thick chocolate hair and a striking jawline to boot. 

He was also a complete control freak with an obsession for power, and that side of him always reared its ugly head in the bedroom. John took it though. Because the majority of the time, it got him off that Oliver was down right vicious and sadistic, and really, John told himself, he was never going to get any better than Oliver. It flattered John that his chemistry professor had pursued him and wanted him badly enough to risk his career and reputation just to have John. He'd simply held John behind one day after class, locked the door, and in an alarmingly similar manner to many unrealistic pornos, Oliver had fucked him senseless over his desk. 

It left him breathless and dizzy and needing more. So he began his secret relationship with Oliver, spent evenings in his bed, let Oliver take him to the fetish club he was a member at, accepted overpriced and tacky gifts from him, and never complained when Oliver pushed him too far or wanted John to do something that was outside his comfort zone. 

John wanted to please Oliver, in every way possible. He wanted him to be proud, which was why he was working so bloody hard at becoming a doctor, going to every single one of his classes and studying himself into a near coma sometimes. He did all of this, despite the vile series of fires and burnt corpses that had started infesting the university campus and surrounding area. 

There had been talk of shutting down some parts of the campus and university, but life somehow carried on. Last Tuesday saw another small fire and another dead body in waste skip behind Barts. It was the third death, the third fire. The police were frantic, and had resorted to interviewing students at Barts since the CCTV footage of the small, dingy alleyway where the body was found after being burnt to a crisp in a skip was less than promising. 

And so here he was, sat in his seat rigidly in his biology room as he waited. 

John had never seen such an intense pair of eyes before in his whole life. It was as if the man could pin him, root him in place with a hard glare. The storm that rolled under the surface of those haunting, grey eyes had John on the edge of his seat and his throat drying up. 

The owner of said eyes was, quite frankly, the most striking man John had ever seen. Artfully messy curls, cutting cheekbones, arching cupid's bow, smooth marble skin. The suit that was shaped to his body screamed money and a personal tailor and the tight, fitted strain of that aubergine coloured shirt made John squirm. 

"Although all of you have already been told, I apparently have to go through the tedious task of repeating information that's already been delivered to you," the man started with a sigh, settling himself against the desk at the front of the room. 

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, I'm a consulting detective of Scotland Yard, and I'm here to find out which of you know anything about the series of fires and murders that have been taking place on campus and around the university," Sherlock continued in a deep, hypnotising rumble. 

The room of silent students all glanced wearily at each other whilst Sherlock shrugged away from the desk with a careless grace. 

"Now," he began, "who'd like to go first for questioning?" 

*******************************

John flinched at the warm hand snatching around his wrist and yanking him around the corner, leaving him breathless with a stunned cry choked in his throat. He was pulled into the familiar body of his chemistry professor, with a malicious force that left his heart racing. 

"What are you doing?" John hissed, ripping his wrist from Oliver's grip. "Someone could see us!" 

"Relax," Oliver muttered, but glancing about nonetheless. "Listen to me John. You need to listen to me." 

That tone of voice set John on edge and made him dig his fingernails into his palms. "What's wrong?" 

"That Holmes bloke," Oliver muttered. "Don't you dare let him get to you. You're not to say anything, anything at all." 

"But I don't know anything about the fires or the... the murders. How could I tell him anything?" John pointed out, worried. 

"I mean about us," Oliver corrected him. "I know his name John. He's going to recognise straight away you're someone's Sub, and you're not to let him get to you. Is that clear?" 

"So he's like you? A Dom?" John asked quietly, keeping his eyes down. 

Oliver scoffed. "Yes, he's dominant. And I don't want you in there alone with him, but he'll know all about us if I come in with you. He's clever and slimy. So be a good boy John, and do as I've asked."

John looked up only to cast his eyes down again at Oliver's raging glare. 

"Is that understood?" Oliver snarled, grabbing John's wrist again roughly, nails squeezing in. "Or have you completely forgotten how to follow instructions?" 

"No sir," John mumbled, squirming. 

With a harsh shove, Oliver was sending John back around the corner and towards the small office where Sherlock Holmes was waiting to question him. 

Taking a deep breath, John raised his hand to knock on the door only to have the door swing open as he did. Sherlock Holmes was stood in front of him, his face looking more than irritable. John was speechless as those sharp, knowing eyes flickered over every inch of him until Sherlock stepped back, his face blank. 

"Really, I've been waiting nearly a full six minutes now to talk to you. I don't appreciate having my time wasted," Sherlock snapped, shutting the door behind John with a bang. "Sit." 

The order, the plain authority in Sherlock's voice from the one simple command left him feeling euphoric and light headed. He barely took in the drab interior of the small admin office being used for the interview, the tired and exasperated man sat at the table in the middle of the room and the heavy odour of coffee in the air. 

Sherlock had his complete and full attention. 

Sherlock sat down next to the other man and didn't take his eyes off of John once. 

"Finally," Sherlock sighed, leaning back and steepling  his fingers under his chin with an unnerving smile. "Somebody of use." 

The man sat next to Sherlock gave him a withering look and cleared his throat. John took in his appearance and felt sorry for him. Heavy circles under his eyes, a head of completely grey hair, a rumpled suit and a grim expression told John that this man was at the end of his tether. 

"John Watson, correct?" the man asked, inspecting the papers beneath him. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. This is Sherlock Holmes, as you most likely already know. We just want to ask a few questions and then you're free to go." 

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak again, but was cut off immediately by Sherlock. 

"Who were you with just before you came into this room?" Sherlock demanded, fingers still steepled and brows furrowed. 

"A friend," John replied, answering not too slowly and not too quickly, he hoped. "She wanted to know what was going on." 

"And it took you a full six minutes to converse with your friend?" Sherlock smirked. "Who you have clearly just made up, by the way." 

"I hardly see how this matters," Lestrade snapped at Sherlock, shooting him a warning look. "John, can you tell me where you were last Tuesday afternoon?" 

"I was here, at my biology class until three o'clock. I had a free period after that so I went to the library after to catch up on some work," John answered, twisting his hands together nervously under the table. 

The chair felt far too uncomfortable. Oliver had been ruthless last night, laying into John's behind with a bruising force that had lefts welts all over his back and arse cheeks, some of the lashes even breaking the skin on his back and leaving him bruised and bloody by the time Oliver had grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pinned him to the mattress as he fucked John into their climaxes.   
He'd left John alone and shivering on the bed afterwards, leaving him to clean his own wounds and attempt to awkwardly disinfect the open wounds on his back. 

"John?" 

John blinked rapidly, releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as he refocused himself into reality and not the soul crushing memories of his Dom's heartless behaviour. "Sorry. What was that?" 

Lestrade's lips thinned and he drained the last of his coffee. "Did you see anything that afternoon? During your class or at the library?" 

"No," he swallowed. "There's nothing I can tell you about the fires, or the murders. I'm sorry, but I haven't seen anything. None of us know." 

Lestrade leant back and gave him a levelled look. "Alright. I'm going for a smoke and another coffee. Let's hope Sherlock can help you think of anything you might have forgotten or missed." 

With that, Greg got up and left, shutting the door with a soft click behind him. 

John felt his blood thump in his ears as he turned his head to meet the icy, penetrating gaze of the consulting detective sat across from him. 

"You don't know anything," Sherlock murmured after a moment of silence. "But you know someone who does. More specifically, whoever spoke to you before you entered this room and got you worked up into such a state." 

"I'm not in a state," John retaliated. 

"Elevated pulse, nervously licking your lips, twisting your hands together under the table, failure to maintain eye contact," Sherlock rattled off calmly. "There is absolutely nothing you can hide from me John." 

"I have nothing to tell you," John told him, gritting his teeth, Oliver's words echoing in his head. 

Don't you dare let him get to you. 

"Withholding information from police doesn't end well John," Sherlock chided. "So just tell me." 

"You're not police though, are you?" John retorted. "You're a what, consulting detective? That's not an official job with the police force." 

"No, you're quite right," Sherlock replied, flashing him quick smile. "I made the job up. I'm the only one in the world. But Scotland Yard needs me, when they're out of their depth, which is always when it comes to anything more complex than a mugging or a case of domestic abuse." 

"Mr. Holmes," John said desperately. "I don't know anything, neither does my friend." 

"Then why are you trying so hard to protect your friend?" Sherlock smirked. "No, don't bother lying to me. I know exactly why." 

"How can you know anything about me? A few minutes alone with me and you think you know everything?" John snapped.

Sherlock's smirk grew bigger and his eyes gleamed. "This friend of yours, they're not exactly a friend are they? No, more like your lover. Your Dom, to be perfectly precise." 

John felt the colour drain from his face. "What?" 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "They most likely told you not to say anything to me, because they recognised my face, or my name." 

"I don't know what you're - " 

"Oh, don't be dense John," Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes. "I can clearly see you're not stupid, despite your completely dismal attempts at lying." 

John kept silent. He'd failed Oliver, and there was nothing he could do now apart from keeping his mouth shut and not saying another word. 

"Only someone who took on the role of the dominant partner in a relationship would come to your university to instruct you on exactly what to say and not to say when I'm questioning you. Why? Well, clearly as a Dom, they would take an interest in what's happening at your university, as I suspect you have the kind of Dom that insists on being involved in every aspect of your life. The most likely explanation, don't you think? Your Dom came here, found out I was with the police, and panicked. And I can't blame them. They must be so insecure, having you as their Sub." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" John hissed, seeing red. "None of that makes sense, since you can't even prove I'm in that sort of relationship." 

Sherlock just continued to smile. "It's obvious John. You came in here with an elevated pulse, dilated pupils and finger nail marks around your wrist. Someone grabbed you, with considerable force, and it aroused you. Not a direct sign you're a Sub, but there's more. There are fading bruises on your face, very carefully placed bruises. You've been fidgeting and grimacing the whole time you've been sat in that chair, you're clearly uncomfortable. I would say it was a sign of a good punishment, but it's not. There's a small spot of blood on the back of shirt, which shows your Dom is clearly incompetent as they didn't bother to take care of you afterwards and your wounds have split." 

John had nothing to say, so he simply stared pointedly at the wall. 

"All of that, and the disgustingly tacky watch on your wrist that is a clear sign of ownership. Anyone else might have missed it, but another Dom? No. It's rather painfully obvious." 

John looked back at Sherlock and wished he hadn't. The man's very presence in the room made him want to drop to his knees and beg, but the look he was giving John nearly made him whine. 

"I understand John," Sherlock murmured, leaning forwards as the gleam in his eyes intensified. "It's an essential trait in a Sub, following their Dom's orders.  You're trying to protect them." 

John shot him a hopeful look, almost pleading. "I... I just..." 

"However, this isn't about what goes on in your bedroom. This is about stopping a killer before someone else dies. So whoever your Dom is, you're not betraying them. Give me their name and I can get a step closer to ending this." 

"No," John breathed, barely able to look at Sherlock. "You're wasting your time. You can't prove he knows a single thing." 

"The fact that you came in here refusing to answer a single question, denying the fact your Dom knows something, is a huge give away. For God's sake John, I just want a name!" Sherlock seethed, his eyes blazing. 

John shrank back and clamped his mouth shut, lowering his eyes. This was becoming torturous, having that deep, growling voice commanding him and yet having no choice but to refuse him. He tried to shove it aside, pretend that Sherlock wasn't a Dom, and an immensely attractive one at that, but it wasn't working. 

"I need to leave Mr. Holmes," John uttered quietly. "I'm sorry I can't help you." 

"What?! I'm not done here John, sit down!" 

John was already on his feet though, heading towards the door. "Goodbye Mr. Holmes. Good luck with your case." 

John tried not to imagine the anger seeping out from under the door as he all but ran down the hall and out of the building. 

*******************

"Ssh," Oliver soothed him, stroking a hand over his bare arm. "Settle." 

John shivered at the touch, leaning towards Oliver with soft, shaking exhale of breath. 

John knew they were at the club, and that there were a dozen other people in the room besides the two of them, but that was it. He was kneeling by Oliver's chair, blindfolded with his hands behind his back and a silk ribbon constricting his wrists together and wearing nothing except for his underwear and a thick, heavy collar around his throat. As the night had drawn on, John had a horrible sinking feeling in his gut as he began to realise it was going to be one of those dreaded dinner parties. 

One of those dinner parties where he knelt in complete sensory deprivation all night whilst Oliver and other Doms dined together with their Subs crouched at their side. One of those dinner parties where he was hand fed bits of food from Oliver's plate and other Doms caressed his hair, his shoulders and whispered to him. One of those dinner parties that ended in the Doms sharing their Subs and passing their partners around until every Dom in the room had had their way with him. 

He felt the cold, glass rim of a glass being pressed to his lips, and heard through fuzzy ears Oliver ordering him to drink. He opened his lips and the rich, sweet taste of wine tipped down his throat. Oliver's thumb swiped across his lower lip as the glass disappeared, but pressing a sharp fingernail into the fleshy part of his lip. 

"He's absolutely charming Oliver," a woman cooed, followed by a manicured finger sliding down his throat. "Do let me have first go with him, won't you?" 

"Of course Charlotte. I'd be happy to," Oliver replied smoothly. "You may as well start with him now if you want. We're nearly done eating anyway." 

"Wonderful," she purred.  

John heard something clip onto his collar and the next thing he knew he was being dragged across the floor, writhing uncomfortably with his hands still bound behind his back. 

Charlotte stopped and he wriggled away cautiously, freezing when the sharp press of a pointy stiletto impaled his thigh and held him in place. 

"Be a good boy now," she murmured. "We don't want you completely out of it before the night's even begun, do we?" 

John just whimpered and pressed his face into the cold, hard floorboards. 

By the time the fifth person had finished with him, John was bruised, sweating, completely naked and unbearably hard. The last thing he remembered was a pair of strong hands lifting him onto a soft, cushioned surface, presumably a couch. He was still there, and for the last few moments he had been left untouched. 

That was until he felt cool fingertips fluttering against the soles of his feet. He jerked in reaction, the nerves in his feet alight, gasping. 

"Hello John." 

He recognised that voice from yesterday, and it sent blood straight to his groin and ice to his heart. 

"Sherlock... Mr. Holmes?" he panted. 

A hand slid into his hair and tightly gripped a fistful of strands, yanking his head back and exposing his throat. A hot, skilled tongue dragged over his pulse to his jaw. 

"You'll address me as Sir tonight John." 


	2. The Woes of Being Submissive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, basically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting all the kind kudos and comments, but thank you so much to everyone who's read the first chapter! Please let me know if there are any mistakes in my work, constructive criticism is always welcomed.

"Stay still for me John," Sherlock murmured in his ear. "And listen very carefully." 

John shivered at Sherlock's hot breath ghosting over his skin, but complied anyway. There wasn't much he could do, with his hands still bound behind his back. If he could be any harder than he was right now, he was sure he'd pass out. Knowing Sherlock was seeing him like this, with a straining erection and tear streaked cheeks and stinging red lines criss crossing every inch of his skin, it made him feel ashamed. Ashamed, and painfully aroused. 

Oh God, there was even come drying on his stomach and chest. 

A hand slid around his knee and dragged him flat onto his back with a sharp tug, making him whimper. The couch dipped on either side of him and Sherlock skimmed his palms up John's heaving ribs as he hovered over him. 

"Seeing as our meeting yesterday proved rather fruitless for me, I was hoping I could try a different approach for extracting information from you," Sherlock told John, his voice rolling over John's senses like silk. "Or are you still adamant on keeping his name from me?" 

"Yes," John gritted out, tensing his muscles as Sherlock's hands stopped their journey at his chest, and a single, dexterous finger circled left his nipple. 

"What a shame," Sherlock sighed. "Nevertheless, I can try, can't I John? After all, I've seen that defiance in you crumple the minute the other Doms have laid a hand on you." 

"You've been watching me," John accused him, blinking furiously against the blindfold. 

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, one hand sliding up to his throat and squeezing, firmly but briefly, before travelling upwards and pushing three fingers past his lips and into his mouth. "And it's been a more than satisfactory show." 

John moaned against Sherlock's fingers, unable to stop the needy noise escaping his mouth as those long, slender digits stroked against his tongue and gums. He didn't know where Oliver was, he'd lost track of him after Oliver had held him down in his lap and another Dom amused himself with seeing how long John could withstand having a vibrator held ruthlessly against his prostate before he was seconds away from orgasming, and then removing the toy and leaving John in a twitching mess in Oliver's lap before repeating the process. Oliver had a strict policy on sharing John. It was fine for the others to hurt him, use their mouths and fingers, toys, but under no circumstances was it acceptable for John to be penetrated by anything other than a toy or fingers.   
Oliver reserved that right alone as his Dom to fuck him. 

"You're wondering where he is, aren't you?" Sherlock murmured as he slid his slick fingers from John's mouth and circling them over his nipple again whilst pushing his other fingers into John's mouth.

"If I'm correct, which I know I am, he left about twenty minutes ago with two other Doms and three Subs to one of the private rooms upstairs. I doubt he'll be coming back for you any time soon," Sherlock informed him. "I imagine he won't be coming back all night in fact. Which suits me fine." 

"How do you know that?" John demanded the second the fingers left his mouth and joined Sherlock's other fingers in rubbing and plucking at John's nipples. 

"I told you John. I've been watching all night. I saw you kneeling by his side, the way he watched you every time someone else had their turn with you," Sherlock informed him, followed by a plump pair of smooth lips pressing softly against his collar bone. 

"He'll come back for me," John insisted, biting his lip against the feeling of Sherlock's nails scraping over his sensitive nipples. 

"If that's what you want to believe," Sherlock replied dryly. "He doesn't care John. So just forget about him for now." 

"Fuck off," John spat out. 

He reeled at the cracking slap that struck him across the face the minute the words left his mouth, arching up off the couch in shock and meeting Sherlock's warm, hard, clothed body, not failing to feel the hard erection that met his thigh as he moved.   
The right side of his face stung harder than he'd ever felt before, throbbing with red hot pain. It was glorious. He moaned wantonly and his cock twitched. 

Sherlock brought one hand up to lock around his windpipe, crushing him back down to the couch. "Speak to me like that again slut. I dare you." 

John didn't know where it came from. He wasn't like this, wasn't an unruly sub who fought back with such venom. But he was acting that way now, and it was the most arousing experience he'd ever had. So much better than letting Oliver do whatever he pleased without even batting an eyelid. 

 "I'm sorry Sir. Didn't you hear me?" John bit back, rolling his hips up. "Fuck. Off." 

Another blow across the face, even harder this time if possible. John keened, squirming as Sherlock dragged him off of the couch and let him tumble to the floor unceremoniously with a dull thud. The hard, icy sole of Sherlock's shoe dug into his chest with enormous pressure and he wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. 

"Clearly you want to have the ever loving shit beaten out of you, don't you slut?" Sherlock growled.

When John didn't answer, Sherlock's other shoe pressed down on his hand. 

"Yes!" John cried, breaking out into a sweat. 

"Ask me properly slut, I know you know how to beg." 

"Please Sir," John whispered breathlessly, trembling.

"Oh, don't fuck with me whore. When I want you to beg, you'll do it properly," Sherlock snarled, pressing harder on John's aching fingers. 

"Please! Fuck, please Sir," John panted. "Beat me. Beat me Sir, please beat me, oh God, Sir - " 

"Get on your knees." 

John scrambled up to do so, every nerve in his body vibrating. "Please." 

Sherlock delivered a third harsh slap to his face and seized the collar around his throat. "I'm going to tell you what's going to happen and I don't want you to speak. If you want what I'm offering, you're going to nod. If you don't, shake your head and I'll take that blindfold off, get you out of this room and put you in a taxi back to your dorm, without your pathetic excuse of a Dom. Is that understood?" 

John nodded fervently. 

"Good boy," Sherlock praised him, slipping a hand through his hair. "I'm going to take you upstairs and the two of us are going to spend the night in a bedroom by ourselves. No other Doms passing you around, just my hands, my mouth, my cock. Only me giving you what you need. Is that clear?" 

He nodded again, barely containing a needy whimper. 

"You're going to wish you'd just given me his name yesterday John," Sherlock breathed against his neck before wrenching him to his feet. "And maybe after this, you'll realise what it's like to have a real Dominant." 

"He is a real Dom!" John snapped without thinking, expecting another slap after he'd gone against Sherlock's instructions, but it never came. 

"You wouldn't know John. You've only ever been with him," Sherlock sighed. "But I'll show you. Now, back on your knees. You're going to crawl all the way up those stairs for speaking to me like that again." 

John felt the leash being clipped back onto his collar and then Sherlock forced him back to his knees. He tried to keep up with Sherlock's fast pace, crawling on his hands and knees, but it was difficult when the man had such a long leg span and a stride he'd struggle to match even on his two legs. He was mercilessly dragged up the stairs, breathing heavily by the time his knees were scraping over the threshold of one of the club's private bedrooms. 

Oliver liked to bring him to the private bedrooms quite often, and he was familiar with the rich, lush decor. The dark flowered wallpaper, sleek oak floorboards, gleaming steel hooks and apparatus that hung from the ceiling and was fixed to the lavish four poster beds. John could feel his mouth start to water as he was left blind in the middle of the room on his knees. 

He heard Sherlock moving around, a drawer opening and closing and the smooth swish of clothes. His footsteps neared John and he tensed immediately, earning him an amused little huff from Sherlock. His skilled fingers pulled away the blindfold that had been fastened over his eyes all night and John winced at the harsh intrusion of light. As his gaze refocused, he took in the dimmed lights of the room and the image of Sherlock stood on front of him. He'd taken his suit blazer off, and the sleeves of his deep, sapphire blue shirt were rolled up to reveal lithe, toned forearms. 

"On the bed," Sherlock instructed him.

John slowly maneuvered himself off the floor and carefully got up onto the bed, not breaking his gaze from Sherlock's the whole time. Sherlock's eyes were alight with a predatory shine and lust that made John shiver, but he still wondered how someone as magnificent and powerful as Sherlock could ever want him. Plain, boring old John, who would never do any better than his sadistic chemistry professor.   
But he was here anyway. 

Sherlock wordlessly unbound his sore wrists from behind his back, rubbing soothing circles over the tender flesh on his wrists. "Lie on your front, head down." 

When John hesitated, Sherlock simply seized the wrist he had hold of and man handled John into position. It wasn't long before his wrists were locked in chains attached to the bed, and Sherlock was fixing a spreader bar in place between his ankles. John turned his head to one side to watch Sherlock as he leant over John and hummed in satisfaction,  running his nose over the back of John's neck up to his jaw. 

"Now, isn't that better?" Sherlock mused, more to himself than John it seemed. 

He placed a gentle kiss under John's eye before meeting his lips and slow, lazy kiss. 

John moaned, and shuddered, the slick slide of Sherlock's lips and tongue going straight to his cock. Sherlock fisted a handful of his hair and deepened the kiss as much as possible with John's head at a slightly awkward angle. It was filthy and wet and Sherlock kept biting his lip and sucking on his tongue and pushing his own tongue into John's mouth and oh, it was perfect the way their lips moved together. 

"Does he kiss you like this?" Sherlock breathed heavily against John's chin before scraping his teeth over it and down to his Adam's apple. "Hmm? Does he, slut? Does he get you all hot and bothered with a single kiss and make you feel dizzy?" 

When John remained silent, Sherlock chuckled to himself. "No. I didn't think so. You see John, this isn't just about him taking you and using you. It's about your pleasure too. I almost feel sorry for you. Do you even get to come after he's finished?" 

"I don't want your pity!" John muttered bitterly. "Leave him out of this." 

"Such a rude, filthy mouth," Sherlock murmured, grabbing John's chin. "But don't worry. I can fix that." 

John's eyes widened as the gag came towards him, sealing his lips shut in determination. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and pinched John's nose. John held on to his breath until the edges of his vision began to blur and then he was gasping and spluttering for air whilst Sherlock shoved the ball gag into his mouth and fastened it with ease. He patted John's cheek patronisingly with a warm smile. 

"All better," he grinned. 

He moved to small table by the side of the bed and picked up the ribbon that John's wrists had been tied together with before. He pulled John's clenched fist open and placed the ribbon in his hand. 

"You're to drop this if you want to stop, seeing as you can't talk and give me a safe word ," Sherlock informed him. 

John's eyes widened and he couldn't help but think that Oliver wouldn't have even bothered with giving John a chance to let him know if he wanted to stop. 

Sherlock moved off of the bed and dragged John's hips up so he was on his knees with his rear in the air, cock hanging thick and heavy between his trembling thighs. 

"Such a pretty boy," Sherlock remarked, running his hands over John's back and stopping at the weeping cuts on his back from where Oliver had laid into him two days ago. "Such a shame that idiot did this to you. If he'd known what he was doing, he wouldn't have broken the skin at all. Much less space to work with now, I'm afraid." 

Again, John couldn't help but think that Oliver wouldn't have left John's injured back alone and would have done whatever he'd pleased, wounds or not. 

Sherlock sighed, and John could make out his movements from the corner of his eye. He had picked something up. Said something was now brushing against the back of his thighs. It was, if John was guessing correctly, a rattan cane. He moaned against the ball, and saliva started to pool at the edges of the gag. Sherlock stroked the cane down his thighs, over his calves and onto his feet. 

John nearly screamed when the first strike hit the soles of both of his exposed feet, curling his toes up and shuddering. The spreader bar prevented him from curling in on himself, and Sherlock had twined one arm around his waist to keep his arse up in the air. 

"Dear me John, if that's your reaction to a little caning then God knows what you'd be like if I used a paddle," Sherlock smirked, rubbing the rattan cane over his feet. 

After that, Sherlock struck him again, and again, and again, John whimpering and arching forwards with each harsh blow to the sensitive undersides of his feet. Sherlock settled for a succession of quick, stinging slaps at a closer proximity for a whole minute and it left John in a sobbing mess. Drool was running freely around the gag and onto the pillow now and his cock was still weeping, desperate for his release. 

"Ssh," Sherlock hushed him as he whimpered, bringing the cane up to rub over his arse cheeks. "You're taking it so well John. Good boy." 

John cried out around the gag as Sherlock struck him against his cheeks with the cane, tears welling up in his eyes quickly. His skin stung as Sherlock delivered a steady series of perfectly timed strikes against his behind, his heart hammering at each pause between blows. He jerked forwards when the cane started coming down harder, his skin singing from the thin, sharp wooden cane. 

"That's it," Sherlock whispered. "Taking it like such a needy little slut. Do you like this John? Having those gorgeous arse cheek caned until they're red and stinging?" 

John sobbed and nodded helplessly into the pillow, pushing his arse back to meet the cane. Sherlock grinned, giving him one final, harsh smack before tossing the rattan cane aside and grabbing John's hot, sensitive flesh in his large hands. He kneaded the stinging globes of flesh firmly, lowering his head down to press his tongue against the raised red lines on John's cheeks. John moaned loudly against the gag, his eyelashes fluttering as Sherlock licked over the welts. 

"Such a good little slut," Sherlock sighed happily. "Do you want my tongue now John? My hot, wet tongue working that tight little hole open? I noticed hardly anyone touched it before. Are they not allowed?" 

John weakly shook his head, his eyes glazed over and his pulse jumping. 

"No, I suppose he doesn't want people using that greedy hole of yours, does he?" Sherlock smiled wickedly, spreading John's cheeks apart and marvelling at the tight, puckered skin of his anus. "Oh John, I'm going to have so much fun taking what's his." 

John spluttered against the gag as Sherlock's tongue pressed against his entrance, pooled with spit. Sherlock moaned loudly, his eyelids fluttering closed as he licked between his cheeks. John panted and sweated, Sherlock's relentless tongue wriggling and stroking over his hole, almost needy. Sherlock quickly worked open his suit trousers and pulled out his own hard, aching member, relieving himself of the tension slightly with long, slow strokes. He buried his face as deep as possible against John's entrance, gasping hotly and lavishing him with his tongue. 

A pair of eager fingers joined Sherlock's tongue and John groaned and pushed his hips back into the wet, hot and much welcomed assault on his arse, his eyes rolling back in his head as Sherlock's tongue probed him open and flexed inside of his arse. He slid his index finger in alongside his tongue, revelling in the high pitched, desperate noises coming from John. He pulled his face away and worked another finger in, tightening his grip on his own cock. 

He spat directly over John's hole and his fingers, smirking at the surprised moan coming from behind the gag in John's mouth. "Filthy. You're an absolutely filthy, shameless slut, aren't you sweetheart?" 

Something that vaguely sounded like "yes" came from John, and seconds later he went rigid and his lungs pulled in a shocked gasp as Sherlock's fingers located his prostate. 

He grinned. 

John let out the most delicious cries as he slowly, tortuously circled his fingers over his prostate, John's entire body trembling. Sherlock couldn't waste such wonderful noises, so he reached forwards and unclasped  the gag, his grin growing wider as John's choked whines filled the room. 

"There you go," Sherlock murmured, massaging and stroking John's prostate with his two fingers. "Look at you, writhing on nothing but two fingers like the world's going to end. Beautiful little whore." 

"Please Sir," John whimpered, his voice breaking. 

"Please what?" Sherlock enquired, pressing his fingers down and then withdrawing them completely, making John release a frantic, panicked noise. 

"M-more, oh God, please Sir, more, I need more," John begged, screwing his eyes shut and rocking his hips. 

Sherlock trailed a finger slowly over John's balls up to his hole, dipping one slick finger back inside and simply holding it there. "Like what. You have to be more specific John." 

"Anything!" John cried. "I'll take anything Sir, just more, please!" 

Sherlock reached a hand up to clasp around John's neck and lay himself over John's back, pressing against him until John collapsed on to the bed. He raked his teeth over John's earlobe and sucked it into his mouth slowly, moving it between his teeth. John gasped, pressing up into Sherlock's bare erection against his arse. 

"More?" Sherlock whispered breathily, dangerously in his ear. "Why the fuck should I give you more? You think you deserve it after the way you've behaved?" 

"I...I don't know Sir," John replied, whimpering as Sherlock rolled his hips against John's arse. 

"What a pathetic answer," Sherlock dead panned, tightening his grip around John's throat, restricting his air. "You deserve nothing from me John. You're lucky that I'm still here. Do you think that there aren't other pretty little whores like you that want me to tie them down and punish them?" 

"No Sir," John choked out, swallowing. "I don't think that. I'm sorry Sir, I - " 

Sherlock tightened his hold even more and cut John off. "You're not going to come tonight John. Your last punishment is going to be making sure I come whilst you're left hard and needy and alone on this bed, knowing that you could have had anything you asked for, if only you'd behaved." 

"Sir, oh God, I'm sorry," John croaked, tears spilling down his face. 

"If I wanted your apologies I'd ask for them," Sherlock snapped, releasing John's throat and pulling back from him slightly. "You see John, I don't reward disobedience. Keep that in mind." 

With that, the warm heat of Sherlock's body was gone and John felt his ankles being released from the spreader bar. Sherlock unlocked the restraints around his wrists and dragged him over on to his back before pinning John in place by sitting on his chest and prying his lips open. 

John frantically took Sherlock's hot, leaking erection into his mouth, lavishing the smooth skin with his tongue and sucking like his life depended on it. 

"Oh shit," Sherlock breathed, sliding his hands into John's hair and cradling his head as he rocked his hips into John's mouth. "Oh God, you're gagging for it, aren't you?" 

John moaned in agreement around Sherlock's cock, practically worshipping his impressively well proportioned member with his tongue. Sherlock was quite verbal, John found, compared to Oliver. He groaned and bit his lip and gasped and his eyelids kept fluttering. It only made John even harder if that was possible, Sherlock's cock twitching in his mouth as he sucked. 

"John," Sherlock moaned. "Like that, like that, oh good boy. Going to come on that pretty face, you want that?" 

John nodded desperately, pleading Sherlock with his eyes. With a muffled groan as he bit into the back of hand, Sherlock started to come down his throat before pulling out, hot, milky liquid spattering over John's cheeks and mouth. 

"Oh God," Sherlock panted, his shoulders sagging and his head tipping back, his Adam's apple bobbing deliciously in that long pale column of a neck as he swallowed and gasped for air. 

He sat up, stretching for the wipes on the night stand and cleaning himself off. He threw aside the wipe when he was done and tucked himself back into his trousers, reaching up to hold John's chin and pressing his lips firmly against John's.

Before it grew too heated, Sherlock drew back and fixed John with a gaze that made him squirm. "Such potential sweetheart. It's wasted on the useless prick that you let fuck you. It's not too late to tell me John. I just want to speak to him, see if he knows anything. You don't want another death, do you?" 

"What the fuck is your problem?" John asked incredulously. "You... you drag me in here, do...do that, and then you're back to trying to get me to betray him?" 

"You're not betraying him," Sherlock corrected him. "And anyway, if he was totally innocent, he wouldn't need to keep his name from me, would he?" 

Oliver was innocent, John was convinced of that. There was no way Oliver would ever kill anybody, ever. He just didn't want Sherlock to know his name because it would most likely end in their relationship being exposed, and Oliver would lose his job. John would never do that to him. 

"You need to go now Sherlock," John said quietly, looking away.

"John..."

Sherlock cursed his voice for sounding weak. 

"Please, just get out." 

With a sigh, Sherlock rose up off the bed and grabbed his suit jacket, turning and looking wistfully at John before he headed to the door. "I'm going to find out anyway John. You can't protect him for much longer." 

John gave him a glare. "Leave." 

So Sherlock did, without another word, deciding he'd just had one of the best nights of his life, and he planned on getting John Watson into bed again. As well as finding out who his bloody Dom was too, of course. How hard could it be, after all? 


	3. Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John make some discoveries of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned folks.

John waited half an hour before he dragged himself from the bed and started up the shower in the ensuite bathroom. He mindlessly washed himself, his brain flat and quiet. Who the fuck did Sherlock Holmes think he was? How could he...Jesus, it wasn't even worth thinking about, John told himself. The man was clearly a scheming arse, Oliver was right. He'd only gotten John into bed so he could manipulate him and toy with him, to try and get Oliver's name out of him. He felt so guilty. 

And if Sherlock did manage to find out Oliver's name, what use was it? Oliver had absolutely nothing to do with the murders. John would know, he spent the majority of his time with the man, and it wasn't as if he ever came walking into a lecture stinking of smoke and covered in blood, or there were tanks of petrol and lighters lying around his house. 

But then again, if Oliver did have anything to do with the fires and the deaths, he wouldn't exactly leave evidence lying around in plain sight, would he? He would hide it, he wasn't stupid. 

What if he did have something to do with it? 

John's stomach started to churn with an uneasy nausea, and he quickly pushed the creeping doubts aside. He would know. It was all just Sherlock making him so paranoid. Oliver wasn't a killer. 

Still... it couldn't hurt to perhaps have look around his house tomorrow. 

***********************

"Sherlock, no!"

Lestarde's protests fell on deaf ears. 

"For God's sake, someone stop him!" 

Too late. Sherlock was already shouldering past the smouldering timbers of the warehouse's entrance, narrowing his eyes as rotten smoke assaulted his sight, covering his face with a gloved hand. 

There. 

There he was, lying still and dead and lifeless, but most importantly, untouched by the flames. 

All it took was a quick dodge around the blazing, heated pillars that were beginning to groan and creak under the flames, and Sherlock had locked his hands under the dead young man's armpits and was dragging him from the blaze. 

He barely missed a flaming shaft falling from the ceiling and hitting him, dragging the body out with him as he reappeared outside of the warehouse. There was the fuss he expected, frantic orders, hands dragging the body off of him, someone trying to put an oxygen mask around him head - tedious - and Lestrade's furious ranting. 

" - out of your bloody mind, you crazy bastard, do you - "

"Lestrade." 

" - have any idea how stupid that was! You could have -" 

"Lestrade, I need - " 

" - died! And then what? That brother of yours would have had me bloody disappeared, you have no idea - "

"Lestrade! Shut up! The body, I need to see it before those imbeciles contaminate it and ship it off to the morgue with a clue of what's happened!" Sherlock snarled, grabbing the man's shoulders fiercely. 

Lestrade looked torn between strangling him, crying and just walking away altogether from the soot covered consulting detective in front of him. 

"Go on then," he got out with gritted teeth. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and swept away, his hair still immaculate and coat collar turned up. Absolute idiot, Lestrade cursed him in his head. 

"Out of the way!" Sherlock barked out, medical gloves already snapping into place around his pale, long hands. "I need to get a good look before you butchers ruin the evidence." 

"Hang on, who gave you permission to - "

"Anderson, I look at the body before you do, or I at least try my best to, at every crime scene. Surely it's not that hard of a routine for your painfully small brain to remember, is it?" Sherlock snapped, glaring at him before leaning over the body lying on the stretcher in the white tent set up for forensics. 

"I don't see why you should! It's my job!" 

"Would you like to run into a burning building next time a body needs to be recovered?" Sherlock asked with a sharp, dangerous smile. 

Anderson gave him sulky, irritated look but remained silent. 

"Didn't think so," Sherlock muttered. 

He returned his attention to the body, blocking the rest of the forensics team out. 

Male, approximately twenty three years old, white, mousy brown hair, blue eyes. No visible death wounds, so either asphyxiation or poison. Not long dead, estimated time of death around four hours ago at 09:00 am. Utterly naked except for the ring around his right ring finger. Old scars in rows of perfect horizontal lines over the upper insides of both thighs and lower stomach. Judging by the angle and perfect healing, not self administrated so no signs of battling depression or self harm. Blood dried around the inside of the thighs. Raped before he was killed. Sherlock rolled the young man over onto his front. Long, thick lines of scars on his back associated with severe lacerations, most likely repeated flogging with a snake whip - no, bull whip. Bruises, only a day old, on his buttocks, broken blood vessels on the tops of thighs too. Also bruises on both ankles and wrists, and yes, there it was. Around his throat too. Clumps of hair missing, blood spots in the centre of bare hair follicles. Ripped out savagely then. Prying open the dead man's mouth, Sherlock took in the sight of a toothless inside. Every single tooth had been pulled out. 

"Well?" Lestrade said, arms crossed over his chest, an expectant look on his face. 

"Poison or asphyxiation. You'll want to look at the contents of his stomach and both intestines. Have him examined for rape. Should be torn muscle in and outside the anus, you won't find any DNA except for pubic hair, most likely. But I doubt you'll find anything. The killer knows what they're doing," Sherlock informed him, peeling the gloves off. 

"Bag the ring, have it sent to Barts. I want to look at it myself," Sherlock added before Lestrade could reply, glancing back at the body. 

With that he strode off, letting his cool, composed mask break the second he was slipping under the yellow tape and stepping into a taxi. 

A Sub. He'd been a Sub, and it was quickly looking like this was a killing spree targeting Submissives.

*************************

Oliver's house was empty and quiet when John slipped inside, checking every room, terrified that Oliver would there. He couldn't exactly go rooting through his house with him there, could he? 

Letting out a sigh of relief, John flipped on the lights of the kitchen and started going through every drawer and cupboard as discreetly as possible, but found nothing out of the ordinary. He went to the living room and found it looking messier than usual. Oliver wasn't a particularly tidy person, but he didn't let his house turn into a pig sty. However, the cushions and throws on the couch were either abandoned on the floor or strewn haphazardly on the couch, newspapers had been knocked off the coffee table, the lampshade was askew, and the TV remotes were also on the floor. 

Had Oliver had fight with someone? 

Not wanting to disturb the room and give away that he'd been here, John turned and went to the stairs, heading up to the bathroom. It looked totally normal, except for the two towels lying by the sink. Oliver never left damp towels on the floor. 

John went to the bedroom and carefully pushed the ajar door open, grimacing. That was also something Oliver never did, leave doors open. He was quietly obsessive about things being shut, drawers, room doors, kitchen cupboards. They all had to be steadfastly shut tight every time Oliver entered or left a room. 

The room was just as much a mess as the living room was. The bed was totally unmade, the sheets a tangled mess in the centre of the mattress, pillows everywhere. The curtains were still shut and Oliver's clothes were littered on the floor. John stepped inside and walked around. Amongst the mess of clothes was an item John didn't recognise. It was a sock. Black, looked brand new from the condition it was in. It wasn't John's (he rarely ever left any clothes at Oliver's anyway) and it wasn't Oliver's either. Oliver had a penchant for slightly obscure patterned socks, and John was pretty certain he'd never seen Oliver wearing a pair of rich cotton, plain black socks. 

John dropped the item of clothing as there was a scraping noise downstairs, the keys rattling in the front door lock. 

***********************

"Nothing," Sherlock hissed throwing the flimsy piece of results paper back onto the lab counter angrily. "Not a single fingerprint except the victim's own." 

Molly swallowed and nervously smiled. "Oh dear. Well, something will come up, won't it?" 

"No," Sherlock muttered, throwing himself back in his seat, glowering at the ring in front of him. "The killer hasn't made a single mistake so far, and this is the fourth one Molly. Good God, I'm getting slow." 

"Oh no, don't say that Sherlock," Molly insisted softly, stepping forwards. "You could never be slow. What about the other victims?" 

"All of them had their belongings taken from them and were stripped naked before they were burnt down to their bones," Sherlock sighed heavily, twisting his fingers around the ring. "No ID, mobile, wallets, nothing. None of them had cars, no clothes have ever been found, and there's been nothing found in the remains of the fires except for the bodies themselves, and there's nothing to point towards who these people are except that they were all male, and I only know that from the skeletal structures that survived the fire. There's nothing to go on looking at dental records because the killer has pulled out every single tooth of every victim." 

Unsure of what to say, Molly chewed on her lip as Sherlock held the ring up and studied the initials carved into the side of the plain gold band, C.H & M.S. They didn't mean much, not when there was so little evidence in the DNA side of things. A knock at the door broke the silence, and a lab technician popped his head around the door.

"You may want to come and look at the body. Got some interesting results." 

***

Sherlock kept his eyes off of the face of the dead body before him, focusing instead on his limp, waxy hands. 

"His DNA says he's Craig Howard, 25 years old," Molly informed Sherlock. "They found traces of semen in his stomach, and he was raped before he was smothered to death, most likely with a pillow or something that wouldn't leave any bruising on his face and throat. However, he was restrained with a collar or a band of some sorts around his throat which caused the bruising there before he died." 

"What match did you get from the semen?" Sherlock asked, studying the bruising around his ankles. 

"Michael Sumner," Molly replied. "He also filed a missing persons case two days ago." 

"He's not the killer. He's Craig boyfriend," Sherlock murmured. 

His Dom. 

"You're sure?" Molly asked, folding the paper in her hands repetitively. 

"Yes, of course I'm sure," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "If Michael had killed Craig, then there were would be traces of his semen in Craig's rectum and anus, as well as his stomach. Why would he bother leaving evidence in one place and not the other? No, the killer used contraception so he wouldn't be linked back to the death." 

Molly just went quiet and nodded. "I - yes, of course. Stupid of me." 

"I'll be back later," Sherlock announced, turning on his heel and heading for the door. "I need to find Lestrade, he'll most likely want to question Michael Sumner. Make sure you have those lung tissue samples ready for me." 

Before she could say another word, the door was swinging shut and Molly was left stood alone, staring after Sherlock in the too brightly lit morgue with a dead body lying on a slab next to her. As usual. She often wondered what her life was. 


	4. Lies, Vomit And Phone Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's luck continues to fail him, Sherlock gets pissed off, and the killer is still out there somewhere in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this, accidentally deleted a good chunk of it, considered having a hysterical fit, but then decided to re write it in the bath whilst under the influence of drugs. (Just some hardcore caffeine, don't worry.) 
> 
> Let me know if there are any mistakes or suggestions you may have, no matter how small! 
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading.

John plastered a smile on his face as he emerged from the bathroom, leaning over the banister to greet Oliver. "Hi." 

He'd dived into the bathroom when he heard the door open and pretended to be using the loo, flushing the chain and running the taps as he heard Oliver approaching the stairs. He just hoped it didn't look strange that he was in Oliver's house after not seeing him all night.

Oliver stopped halfway up the stairs, looking up at John with a disgruntled expression, clearly not expecting John to be in his home. "What are you doing here?" 

"I came to see you," John said, as if it was obvious, still smiling down at Oliver where he had paused on the stair case. "I didn't know where you went last night." 

Oliver's eyes darkened. "I came looking for you. Where did you go?" 

"I went home," John replied, moulding his fingers around the banister as Oliver continued climbing the stairs. 

"Oh really?" Oliver dead panned, lip curling slightly. "You clearly must have an identical twin then, or Charlotte was lying." 

"I don't understand what..." John trailed off, frowning. 

"Don't lie to me." 

John bit his tongue and simply offered Oliver an open, pleading gaze. Please believe me. Please stay there, right by the top of the stairs. Right where you can't swing your arm around and deck me in the face. Where I can still retreat back in to the bathroom and lock the door until you calm down. 

"Let's try again, shall we?" Oliver asked, in that quiet, controlled voice that only meant one thing. "Why weren't you there down stairs in the dining room where I left you?" 

"I... I left," John replied, holding Oliver's eyes. 

"John. Don't make this harder than it needs to be." 

"I left Oliver. I went home when you didn't come back." 

He moved too quickly, unluckily for John. Oliver had a fistful of his hair and was crowding him up against the wall in a blur, pinning both of his wrists to his back with a strong, merciless hand. He pressed John against the wall, John's ribs giving a painful twinge at being crushed against the wall with Oliver at his back. 

"Charlotte told me," Oliver hissed in his ear. "You went upstairs with that Holmes bastard. Want to tell me what that was all about John, hmm?" 

"He just - Oliver, please, it was nothing," John gasped, cringing as Oliver yanked on his hair. 

"Tell me what you two did when he got you upstairs," Oliver demanded. 

 "We just kissed!" John cried out, the roots of his hair burning with pain in Oliver's grasp. "Just kissing Oliver, nothing else!" 

"For some reason I don't believe you," Oliver laughed flatly, wrenching him away from the wall. 

John threw his arms out on instinct to break his fall, wincing at the sharp jolt that ran up his wrists as he hit the floor. Not hard enough to sprain though, thankfully. He scrambled to his knees in an attempt to get away, but a harsh kick to his ribs sent him flying face down on the floor again. 

"Oliver please!" he cried out, covering his face with his arms as Oliver delivered another bruising kick to his torso. 

"Did he fuck you?" Oliver hissed, dropping to his knees and straddling John, fisting the front of his shirt. "Did you roll over and spread your legs for him John?" 

"No! He didn't, I swear!" 

"I don't believe you." 

John's vision span out of focus as a clenched fist collided with the side of his face, his cheek throbbing. An onslaught of punches and blows to his face and head followed after the first hit, and he could do little else but try to keep his arms up by his head to protect himself. 

"I told you! I fucking told you John, didn't I?!" Oliver seethed, chest heaving. "I told you stay away from him!" 

"Yes!" John sobbed, his lungs screaming for air that he couldn't seem to get enough of. "Yes, you did, you told me! I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't listen ! Please - " 

Blood burst over his taste buds as Oliver hit him again, the metallic pang filling his mouth. His teeth all still felt intact though, which was a blessing. 

 "Save your breath," Oliver hissed. "If you were fucking sorry you wouldn't have gone upstairs with him in the first place. And all this time, I thought you'd never go behind my back. You're a fucking liar John." 

"Oliver," John pleaded, vision blurred with tears. "Please, you have to know how sorry I am!" 

Oliver leant closer to his face, his gaze unwavering and hard. "I don't give a shit." 

John's face simply felt numb as another attack came from Oliver's bloodied fists, and his biggest task then was trying to keep a firm grasp on consciousness that was threatening to leave him. He couldn't pass out. He just couldn't. This was all he had left. 

John barely registered the absence of Oliver's weight over his thighs, his eyes rolling around to look for the man. He was on his feet, stood looking over John with blank face, his mouth open as he panted. 

"I want you to leave," Oliver grunted. "And I don't want to see your face again until I decide I can forgive you." 

John watched him turn on his heel and stalk into his bedroom, slamming the door shut as he disappeared inside.  

Getting up off the floor was going to take some effort. 

************************

The last person in the world that John wanted to see right now was Sherlock fucking Holmes, and yet here he was, knocking into John as he strode out of Barts, his lips in a tight, grim line. His eyes widened with shock when he looked down and saw a very bruised and bloody John, and then narrowed in anger at the state of him. It took seconds before he deduced what had happened. 

"You went to his house, he came home not expecting you to be there, remembered he couldn't find you last night and beat you to a pulp out of petty jealously and self insecurity," Sherlock rattled off in one breath. 

John just focused on breathing in and out. "Hello to you too." 

"What on earth are you doing walking around after he attacked you?" Sherlock demanded, blocking John's entry to the building. "You're likely to lose consciousness within the next three to four minutes, judging by the severity of your head injuries and the fact your eyes keep rolling in your head." 

"I needed to get a few medical supplies, not worth going to the hospital for," John mumbled, clutching the door frame to keep himself upright.

Sherlock sighed irritably. "Turn around John. You're coming with me." 

"Like hell am I going anywhere with you," John snorted, before his legs keeled under him and Sherlock's hands were grabbing hold of him. 

Sherlock pursed his lips and threw John's arm around his neck, hailing a taxi as he manhandled John down the steps. 

The taxi driver's eyes zeroed in on John as Sherlock got the two of them into the vehicle, tilting his head up. 

"He alright?" the driver asked in a gruff, cigarette abused voice. 

"Perfectly fine," Sherlock replied dryly. "221 Baker Street please. And quickly, if that's not too much to ask." 

The driver just nodded and pulled away onto the road, heading to Baker Street.  Sherlock's kept his fingers of the fluttering pulse in John's wrist the whole way back, not taking his eyes off of him. 

Once Sherlock managed to drag a still unconscious John up the stairs to his flat, he placed the boy on his bed and fetched Mrs. Hudson. 

She squawked in horror at the sight of the bloodied young man on his bed, hands flying to her mouth. "Oh, the poor thing! Sherlock, whatever happened to him?" 

"Mugged on his way to Barts," Sherlock lied quickly, heading to the door. "His name's John. Fix him up as best as you can Mrs. Hudson, I'll be back shortly. Make sure he doesn't leave." 

As normal, he was out the door before she could reply. She turned to the boy on Sherlock's bed and sighed. Sherlock really did know how to pick them. 

***************

Michael Sumner was greying at the temples despite his age and had a few days of unshaven stubble gracing his haggard but nevertheless handsome face. His eyes were blank, fixed on the lukewarm mug of tea in front of him, but not really looking at it. 

"Michael, we understand that - " 

"So he's dead," Michael stated. "He's not... he's gone?" 

Lestrade grimaced. "Yes. Craig was killed, Michael." 

"How?" 

Michael raised his eyes, still blank, to look at Lestrade. He looked grey, Sherlock thought, as he sat silently next to Lestrade in his office. 

"He was smothered. Asphyxiation," Lestrade answered carefully, hands clasped on the table between them. 

Michael scrubbed a hand over his face. He swore a matching ring to the one that was found on Craig's body. "I don't understand. Craig never... he never did anything. Not once, once in his life did he give anyone a reason to hate him." 

"We have a theory," Lestrade told him slowly. "We believe that, if the other murders are consistent with Craig's, then whoever killed Craig was planning it. We suspect all the other people that have died were targeted in a similar way, if not identical, to the way Craig was." 

"What do you mean, targeted?" 

"It's difficult to say, because of the severity of the burning the bodies go through, but all the other victims were similar to Craig. We think the killer is picking out people of a certain description. It's likely that the killer picked Craig out and watched him for some time." 

"Jesus," Michael breathed, sagging forwards and holding his head in his hands. 

"You're a member of a BDSM club, aren't you Mr. Sumner?" Sherlock asked, face unreadable as he watched the man across the table. 

Michael's head jerked up at that, jaw tight. "What's that got to do with anything?" 

"The killer probably first saw Craig there," Sherlock explained. "He restrained Craig by the ankles and wrists before he beat him and then raped him." 

Michael went even more of a sickly colour, his jaw dropping. 

"For God's sake Sherlock, did you have to - " Lestrade began but Sherlock cut him off. 

"Was there anyone at the club that you're a member at that seemed suspicious? A new member, most likely without a Submissive," Sherlock asked, leaning forwards intently. 

"I... I don't..." Michael choked out, his eyes foggy with tears. "I can't remember." 

"Right, you need to get out," Lestrade muttered under his breath at Sherlock. "You're only making this worse. I'll text you later." 

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, but not really minding that he was being dismissed from the interview. Michael clearly wasn't up to being questioned. "I would ask you to not miss anything important, but that's an impossible task. Make sure you keep me informed." 

Lestrade just glared at him and flicked his eyes towards the door. Sherlock got up and headed that way, shrugging on his coat as he did so. 

"Wait!" Michael cried out, his eyes wide and red as tears dribbled down his face. "I... there was a man, last month. He said he'd rejoined the club, but I didnt recognise him. It... it was obvious he was lying about why he'd joined and there was just... God, I don't know, it's probably nothing, but he just unsettled me. There was something wrong about him." 

"Can you remember his name?" Lestrade asked eagerly. "What he looked like?" 

"I can't remember his name or his face that well, but he was pretty tall, looked like he took too many steroids," Michael recalled bitterly. "His eyes were... they were dark. They just looked black the whole way through." 

"Is there anything else about him you remember?" Lestrade prompted him. 

Michael shook his head. "No. I don't think so. I'm sorry." 

Sherlock nodded to Lestrade as he left, sparing Michael a brief glance before shutting the door. He looked just as drained as he did when he'd entered Lestrade's office. 

********************

"Oh God," John groaned into a plush, soft pillow, his head spinning. 

His eyes cracked open and he panicked when he realised he didn't have a clue where he was. He was lying in a more than comfortable bed wearing nothing but his boxers, the mattress cradling his body, which currently felt like it was being flayed with hot pokers. 

Every muscle ached and his ribs screamed with each breath. His face felt like it had been stung multiple times by a swarm of wasps it was so sore and swollen. He managed to drag himself into an upright position and noticed the glass of water and painkillers on the bedside table. He shoved the pills into his mouth, not caring if they were pure fucking heroin or just paracetamol,  chugging down the water as fast as he could. 

His hands were shaking as he set the glass down, his skin scraped and red. He slowly moved his legs off of the bed to sit on the edge of it, steeling himself as he stood up. Now began the monumental task of hobbling to the door and getting out of the strange bedroom he was in. 

By the time he got to the door it felt like his body was on the verge of caving in on itself and his brain was pounding with agony. As he opened the door, he nearly collided with Sherlock Holmes for the second time that day. 

"John! Dear God, he really must have hit you hard for you to be doing something as idiotic as trying to walk around," Sherlock growled in annoyance. 

John let out a hoarse cry of protest as Sherlock simply scooped him up in both arms and set him back down on the bed, not too carefully either. 

"What the fuck?" John gritted out, clenching his teeth as his ribs sang with pain. 

"I'd be an old man by the time you walked back to bed by yourself," Sherlock muttered in disapproval. "I thought you were supposed to be training to be a doctor, and yet here you are trying to walk when you're in no fit state to." 

"Yeah, well," John grumbled. "Doctors make the worst patients." 

Sherlock ignored to come back, invading John's personal space as his eyes shot over his face in a close inspection of his injuries. "He really did go to town on your face, I have to say."

"Thanks," John replied sourly, glaring. "Listen, Sherlock, as much as I appreciate you bringing me back here, I really need to go back to - " 

"Out of the question," Sherlock snapped, crossing his arms. "You're not going anywhere until I'm happy you're capable of walking a few steps without collapsing." 

"Not very compliant, are you?" John muttered under his breath. 

"Yes, and you don't exactly have sufficient common sense if you're allowing yourself to be strung along in an abusive relationship with your chemistry professor," Sherlock retorted. 

John felt his heart in his throat, and he stared at Sherlock. "You have no idea what you're talking about." 

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Don't I? It wasn't hard to find out his name John. All I had to do was ask another member of the club and then look him up." 

"You had no right to do that!" John snapped from the bed, trying not to look like a petulant child as Sherlock stood over him. "It's none of your business!" 

"I don't care whose business you think it is," Sherlock told him firmly. "He's abusing you John. Just look at your face." 

"I deserved it," John muttered, head down as he glowered at Sherlock's soft, warm duvet. 

"He really has gotten into your brain, hasn't he?" Sherlock murmured in astonishment. "John, you didn't deserve it." 

"How do you know I didn't ask for it?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe I enjoy this." 

"No," Sherlock sighed, sitting down at the edge of the bed. "You don't enjoy it John. You just let him do whatever he wants, because you think that's how a Dom and Sub relationship works." 

"Oliver is good to me," John defended, although he wasn't really sure why. "You don't know the first thing about my relationship with him." 

"Anyone who thinks it's acceptable to do this to you is abusing you John," Sherlock insisted. "He's vile John; you're a vulnerable eighteen year old who's letting him take advantage of you because you think that when he hurts you, it's his way of taking care of you, but it's not. You're completely wrong." 

"Don't talk to me like I don't know what's gong on. And what you did to me, that was ok, was it?" John demanded incredulously, eyebrows stretching for his hairline in disbelief. 

Sherlock's eyes, which had softened and gazed at John with something close to affection, hardened and shut off. "If you're referring to the events of last night that happened between us, then I can assure that was not an attempt to take advantage of you John." 

"Are you shitting me? Sherlock, you were just trying to get information out of me! If that's not manipulation and taking advantage, then please tell me what is!" John scoffed. 

"You think I was just using you?" Sherlock asked, offended. 

"It sure as hell seemed that way to me," John answered with a scowl. 

"Oh, of course, so beating you to the point of passing out, treating you like you're the dirt at the bottom of his shoes and abandoning you at the chance of getting his hands on other people's Subs, that's Oliver treating you well is it?" Sherlock snarled. "But when I lay every ounce of my attention to you and make it my priority for you to enjoy sex, that's using you." 

John blushed scarlet. "You've got the most twisted sense of perception I've ever - " 

"No, John, you're the one who doesn't understand this. I'm trying to help you for God's sake!" 

"You know what, this is ridiculous," John told Sherlock scornfully. "I'm sat in some stranger's bed in nothing but my pants and having an argument with him about something he knows fuck all about." 

John lurched forwards to get out of bed, but a broad, pale hand stopped him. 

"You're not leaving John," Sherlock said flatly. "You won't make it ten steps down the road before you collapse again. You've got a concussion." 

"Then I'll get a taxi," John growled, trying to tamp down on the waves of nausea hitting him, the pounding in his head still throbbing and going strong. 

"You don't listen at all do you?" Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "Completely deluded, that's what you are John Watson. You needs to go back to sleep, the - " 

John was quite pleased that when he threw up it managed to hit Sherlock's painfully shiny and expensive Italian leather shoes, even splattering up onto the bottoms of those perfectly tailed suit trousers. Sherlock just blinked and looked at the the vomit on his floor, shoes and trousers before glaring at John. 

He toed off the shoes and unbuckled the belt fastened around his trousers, pulling it out and throwing it behind him. He quickly shucked the suit trousers and socks, all the while still glaring at a washed out, dizzy John. 

"I told you that you were in no fit state to leave," Sherlock reminded him grimly, before turning and heading to the door. "The dry cleaning bill, if you had any idea..." 

That was the last thing John remembered hearing from Sherlock before he found himself drifting off into a hazy, pained unconsciousness again. 

********************

Oliver nearly cried out at the shrill, sudden ringing of his phone, jerking him from his daze. He blinked, looking down at the unmarked essay in front of him on the kitchen table before locating his phone answering, not bothering to look at the number. 

"Hello?" he yawned, scrubbing at his stinging, tired eyes. 

"Oliver Forrester?" 

The voice was deep, rich and sent alarm bells off in his head. 

"Yes," he answer uncertainly. "Who's calling please?" 

"That doesn't matter," the voice replied. "I just need you to listen, very carefully." 

"What is this?" Oliver laughed humourlessly. "Listen mate, if this is some stupid prank call - " 

"John Watson," the voice hissed. "How is he, Oliver?" 

"What?" Oliver whispered in horror. "I... I don't know what you mean." 

"You know exactly what I mean," came the clipped, angered reply. 

"What do you want?" Oliver demanded, glancing about him in the kitchen, shivers running up his spine. "How the fuck did you get my number?" 

"I want you to understand," the voice started, "that if you ever hurt John again the way you did today, whatever reason you may have for it, you'll wish you'd never even looked at John in the first place." 

"You sick fuck," Oliver cursed, his knuckles white as he gripped his mobile. "I'm calling the police, this is harassment." 

"Oh, please do. I'd love to tell them all about how a respectable professor enjoys abusing his eighteen year old student. I'll do that, and then we'll see how long the university lets you keep your job for, shall we?" 

"That's blackmail," Oliver hissed furious. "How do you even know about John? There's no proof at all that I have a relationship with him!" 

"Mmm, so the various members at the BDSM club you visit wouldn't be able to vouch for your relationship with John then? The records filed away on the club's computer system, they wouldn't have yours and John's name down together, would they?" 

"Do you want money?" Oliver snapped, his pulse jumping. "What the hell do you want from me?" 

"I want to be comfortable with the knowledge that John isn't going to get beaten into a bloody mess if he's alone with you," the voice retorted. "And if he is, you'll be extremely sorry Oliver." 

"Why have you waited until now?" Oliver demanded. "Why haven't you already told the police about us?" 

"Don't worry," the voice answered cooly. "Your relationship - if you can even call it that - with John won't last anyway. But then again, you knew it wouldn't, didn't you? You don't intend for it to go far, not until the next attractive, impressionable young student comes along." 

Oliver just swallowed, unsure of what to say. 

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. "Just a warning. Hurt John again like that, and you'll soon find things very difficult for yourself Oliver." 

The line went flat, and Oliver simply sat in his kitchen staring at the mobile in his hand. He stabbed the screen to take him to his call history, and found the number was private, and most likely untraceable if the caller had covered his tracks well enough.The numbers on the clock on the screen flashed, and it was midnight. 

Oliver looked down and felt sick when he realised he'd been sat in front of John's essay for the entire phone call. 


	5. Treading Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is probably too eager, John needs a reality check and everyone else carries on with life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is so short and not even worth posting for you guys to read , but this is just what my brain spewed out. I'm sorry.

In his dream, John never stopped smiling, the whole time. It was horrific. He kept smiling at Sherlock, the same Cheshire cat smile as his skin crackled and burnt and peeled away from the muscles and sinew beneath his flesh. Sherlock could swear he smelt burning in his subconscious, even in his strange, lucid dreaming state. 

"I want you to watch Sherlock," John sighed happily in a trilling, sing song voice that made his skin crawl. "I like this, don't you get it? I get off on it." 

John's eyes never left him, even when the flames started to crawl up his chest, flaying open his rib cage in a splatter of blood and gore. Tears started streaming down John's face as he lay there, letting the flames consume him, still grinning. 

"I deserve it," John whispered, his eyes blank and his lips stretching too far. They kept stretching until the skin split, tearing up into John's cheeks and exposing the teeth at the back of his mouth in that haunting smile. 

Sherlock couldn't move, couldn't speak. He could only watch as John let himself burn alive, and that shadowy faceless being watched the scene on the other side of John's body. Sherlock couldn't see their face. Just shadows. But it was him. He'd done this, he was the one who'd done this to John and all the other dead men. 

"You can't find him Sherlock," John croaked, blood bubbling over his face from his split cheeks, flames creeping up to his throat now. "You haven't a hope in hell." 

 

Sherlock woke up with a violent jerk, sitting up and breathing hard. He'd fallen asleep slumped over in the armchair he'd dragged into his bedroom last night so he could sit up and watch John. 

John, who wasn't in his bed where he'd left him. 

Sherlock lurched to his feet, calling John's name, slamming open the bedroom door. He checked every room, but nothing.

The flat was completely empty. 

Sherlock was tempted to throw his new set of conical flasks at the wall, but instead settled on seizing his violin and abusing it for a good hour, the whole of 221 filled with violent, angry screeches of the tortured instrument. 

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson just sighed and turned the telly up.

*****************

"Jesus, what happened to you?" Mike demanded, pulling a face at John's appearance as he entered their dorm. 

"Got mugged, didn't I?" John grumbled, setting his keys down on the side and heading to the bathroom. 

"Have you reported it?" Mike asked, watching John with  worried frown. "It looks really bad John, are you sure you don't need to see a doctor?" 

"That's where I was, last night," John lied. "I went to the hospital and they kept me in over night. There's no point in reporting it, I didn't see their faces properly." 

"Oh. Right... well I er, wasn't here last night either so," Mike mumbled, turning his attention back to his laptop. 

"Oh yeah?" John smirked, even though it hurt his face to do so. "Pay another visit to Tracy's did you?" 

"Maybe," Mike grinned sheepishly. "She says hello by the way, and that you need to get a move on with asking her sister out." 

John rolled his eyes and opened the bathroom door. "Yeah, because that's definitely going to ever happen." 

Mike shrugged. "I know, but it's not exactly my place to go around telling everyone you're not into girls. Up to you tell them mate." 

"I just wish people could leave me alone," John muttered, slipping inside the bathroom and shutting the door. 

As he stood in the shower and let the hot spray wash over his bruised, battered body, he tried to keep his mind on the fact that he had 4 chapters of his biology textbook that needed reading and pages of ridiculous chemistry equations that needed completing in time for Monday, and not on the events that had happened over the past forty eight hours. 

When he'd washed every part of his body as carefully as possible and shampooed his hair, John examined his body in the slightly steamed over, full length mirror on the wall opposite the shower. 

His face was swollen and purple, to put it bluntly. His eyes were bloodshot and the skin on the bridge of his nose had split, along with his lower lip in three places. His cheekbones sported blotchy, mottled bruises that spanned from his jaw to his temples and forehead and there was a cut that began on the corner of his forehead and carried on into his scalp which was congealed and sticky. 

John's torso was in as much as a state as his face. His chest and stomach were decorated with starbursts of blue and purple, morphing together in places to create an impression of one giant bruise that covered his entire body. He examined his back the best he could in the mirror, which had managed to escape the severe marks that the rest of his body was covered in, but still bore the odd stain of broken blood vessels beneath his skin.

John grimaced at himself in the mirror. He was going to have fun ignoring the stares at his classes tomorrow. 

********************

As soon as John entered the classroom, he kept his eyes down and away from the front of the room where he knew Oliver would be. He couldn't stand to look at his Dom, not after seeing the wild rage and betrayal that had been in his eyes on Saturday morning when he'd turned up at Oliver's house. He felt nothing but guilt. 

He went and sat right at the back and kept the hood up of his favoured, oversized black hoodie that covered part of his face and didn't come into contact with his skin too much either. Last night had been agony, the sheets on his bed seeming unbearably heavy and painful on his body. He'd been tempted to just swallow every packet of paracetamol and ibuprofen he could find in Mike's and his dorm, but kept himself limited to taking just over the recommended dose to try and numb the ache. 

He felt tired. So very, very tired. 

The lecture dragged by unbearably slowly, and although John tried to keep up and made notes, his brain just screamed for him to put his head down on the desk and sleep. By the time the room of students were stretching and groaning and shuffling out of the lecture, John felt nearly dead on his feet. He tried to stop his heart from slamming back and forth in his chest as he neared Oliver's desk to drop off the equations work due in, but it was a futile attempt. He was practically sweating as his shaking fingers dropped the paper on Oliver's  desk.

"John," Oliver murmured softly. 

John didn't meet his eyes, and kept his own trained on his shoes. "Yes sir?" 

Oliver watched as the last student left the room, and then he swiftly got up from his desk and locked the door, turning the face his Sub. "You didn't seem to be concentrating very much today." 

Yes, well, that's pretty hard when your body is in absolute agony and you're drugged up to your eyeballs on painkillers, John thought bitterly in his head. 

He didn't say it though. 

"I'm sorry sir," John rasped, still unable to even look at Oliver. He just sort of wanted to cry right now, simply because he'd never felt like such a huge disappointment before in his life. 

John flinched as warm, familiar hands tugged his hood down and his face was exposed. John stepped back, feeling disgusted with himself. 

"John..." Oliver breathed softly, something  dysphoric and despondent leaking into his voice as he gazed sadly at the boy in front of him. "John, please.. look at me." 

When he met Oliver's eyes, he was stunned at the regret he saw in them, the pinched, strained look to his face. Oliver moved forwards and cradled his face in his palms as if John was made from glass and may shatter at any minute. 

"I'm sorry," Oliver told him, his eyes wide. "I'm so sorry John. I should never have laid a finger on you. What I did, it was..." 

"I don't care," John replied flatly. "I deserved it. I should have just listened to you, but you're right. I went behind your back and I don't expect you to even consider forgiving me Oliver, but I - " 

Oliver pressed an index finger over John's mumbling lips, stopping his words. John stared at him and fought against the sharp sting of impending tears brewing in his eyes, swallowing nervously as Oliver pressed his lips over his with a feather light touch. He barely felt it. 

"We should just put it behind us," Oliver told him. "I want you to forget about Holmes. I don't want him to come between us. We're stronger than that John." 

John nodded eagerly, despite the throbbing in his head as he did so. "Of course. I...yes. We should move on." 

Oliver smiled praisingly  at John, that smile that he gave him whenever he was especailly pleased with him. "Good. Now go on, you need to go to your next class. I want you to come to mine tonight. Will you stay over?" 

"If you want me to," John agreed, relieved Oliver was acting so forgiving. 

"Then I'll see you tonight. I'll call you, ok?" Oliver sighed happily. 

John nodded and let Oliver kiss him one last time before he left and headed off to his next class. As soon as the door was shut, Oliver glanced at his mobile resting on his desk, still paranoid that another phone call would come. 

*******************  
"Right," Greg Lestrade huffed out, plonking himself in his desk chair and taking a long gulp of over brewed tea as he faced the consulting detective perched on the chair opposite his desk, looking more like Greek god in a Belstaff coat than a human being. 

"What have you got for me?" Greg enquired. 

He was answered with a bored eye roll and an indignant sigh. "You'd really think that Scotland Yard would be more independent and capable than the sorry excuse of police officers that it's actually composed of." 

Greg let the comment go straight over his head, as he did with every other blatant insult Sherlock liked to dish out at every given opportunity. "You know, you don't have to even bloody be here if it bothers you that much Sherlock." 

"But you need me," Sherlock reminded him with a high and mighty smile. "And who am I to refuse a charity case?" 

Sherlock fixed Greg with a steady gaze and then launched into his deductions. 

"Our killer has killed four men in total," Sherlock murmured. "All of them had every single one of their teeth pulled out in case we were able to identify the bodies from dental records. He clearly knows what he's doing, highly intelligent. All of them shared dents in parts of their skulls, which shows the killer has heavily beaten them. So, a pattern. It's likely that he treats all of them the same before he kills them. Which points towards all the other bodies being raped before he kills them, like Craig." 

"So we're pretty safe to say we're looking for a man of white ethnicity?" Greg asked. "All the victims were white and the figures add up that the majority of sexual crimes are performed within the same race as the offender." 

"Mmm," Sherlock sounds, as if it wasn't important. "He kills them before he sets them on fire. He doesn't seem to care that the bodies aren't burnt in secret locations though. One was in a skip behind Barts, one was in an empty warehouse, the basement of a café on Barts campus and the other in a car park at the same university. He's leaving us patterns on purpose. He's trying to rub our faces in it, that he's killing and we can't catch him." 

"All of that matches apart from Craig. We found him in a warehouse, not at Barts," Greg pointed out. 

"He's trying to throw us off," Sherlock dismissed with a wave of a slender, long fingered hand. "Maybe he's getting paranoid. He might have left Craig at the warehouse so he doesn't look too predictable, after leaving the first three in the same place. But Barts. That's the biggest lead right now, but it's safe to say we're looking at an organised nonsocial offender. Fits most of the criteria so far." 

"None of the students or staff seem to know anything though," Greg muttered, swigging back some more tea. "So it's an outsider targeting the university." 

"Most likely, if it was a member of staff or a student they wouldn't leave the body so close to home where it can traced back to them. They wouldn't be able to easily hide it from the other people there that know them," Sherlock agreed. "However, there has to be someone at the whole university who knows something, and a reason why the killer has chosen Barts." 

"But none of them do, unless they were lying." 

"Of course someone was lying," Sherlock snapped, narrowing his eyes. "Did you actually think this would be a case where someone didn't lie?" 

"Wishful thinking I suppose," Greg sighed. "Alright. I'm still waiting for Donovan to get back with a report on all the missing persons cases filed in the last month, see if any of them look similar to Craig, since you're convinced the killer is targeting men of a certain type." 

"Whilst you sit and pour over pages of faces, I'm going to go back to Barts," Sherlock announced dryly, rising with a fluidity that Greg wondered at. "There's bound to be something that's been missed. Text me if anything comes up." 

"Likewise," Greg replied sternly, giving him a meaningful look. "Don't try to do anything stupid Sherlock." 

"As if that's possible," Sherlock scoffed, sweeping out of the room with his usual dramatic flair. 

Sherlock was quite eager to finally meet Oliver Forrester face to face. 


	6. Mysteries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been in somewhat of a creative slump recently, so I'm sorry this has taken so long to get out to you guys.   
> Also, it would be really great if someone could tell me how to use an italic font for this website when I'm writing, because my knowledge and skills in that department are zilch. I only know how to type words, unfortunately.   
> I probably sound like a stone age moron but computers and shit just aren't my thing.   
> Thank you for everyone who is supporting this story! I like you almost as much as I like (require to function) potato salad.

Oliver was just about to push away from his desk and pull his coat on when the door to his office opened after a sharp knock. 

Oliver froze when the tall, dark stranger stepped inside, as bold as anything. "It's normally polite to wait until you've been told you can come in after you've knocked. Just a tip." 

"Just as well I'm not polite then, isn't it?" Sherlock drawled, shutting the door behind him. "Sherlock Holmes. I'm correct in assuming you're Oliver Forrester, yes?" 

Oliver was speechless. What the hell was this lunatic doing in his office? "You? You're Sherlock Holmes?" 

"No, I lied," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. "For a highly renowned professor, you are slow." 

"You bastard," Oliver hissed, his eyes flashing with anger. "The fucking nerve, you just come in to my office after everything you've done, like it's nothing at all!" 

"And what exactly am I supposed to have done?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. 

"You know what!" Oliver yelled. 

"You can't even say it, can you?" Sherlock chuckled darkly. "You can't even say his name." 

"You really are something else Holmes, aren't you?," Oliver snapped. "And if you're here to ask me about what I know about the deaths for your pathetic little murder investigation, you're wasting your time." 

Sherlock ignored him and strode over to his desk, withdrawing a photograph and laying it on the desk for Oliver to see. "Do you recognise him?" 

Oliver turned his eyes down too see, but didn't look up from the photo, frowning. "No. He's not exactly striking, is he? If I had seen him before it wouldn't be hard to completely forget him." 

"Wrong," Sherlock corrected him. "The human brain catalogues and stores every face that it's ever seen. His face is in your head somewhere." 

"What, so I'm supposed to remember seeing someone I might have walked past or held a door open for once?" Oliver asked, unimpressed. "I wouldn't know him if I fell over him." 

"You won't be falling over him anytime soon," Sherlock told him quietly. "He's dead. We found him in an abandoned warehouse on Saturday morning. His name is Craig Howard." 

Oliver glanced up in surprise at Sherlock but then shrugged. "Sorry to hear that. But I don't know him. His name means nothing to me and I can't recall ever seeing him before." 

"And what about Michael Sumner?" Sherlock enquired, laying Michael's face next to Craig's on the desk. "Do you know him?" 

Oliver squinted at the photo for a few seconds. "I think I remember him. He was... I think he might have been a member at the same...um, the same club as me." 

"When?" 

"It must have been about  five years ago, I'm not sure. He was only there for a few months until he met some new boyfriend or something. I didn't know him, not really." 

"Craig," Sherlock supplied for him. "He met Craig six years ago and he'd been with him ever since. Craig went missing last Thursday and now he's dead."

"Look, this is all very sad, but what does it have to do with me?" Oliver sighed impatiently, ignoring the faces staring up at him on his desk. 

Sherlock placed both hands on the desk, his eyes seeming like steely grey flint as he leant forwards, staring at Oliver with unnerving attention. "You know something." 

"That's bullshit," Oliver laughed. "This has absolutely nothing to do with me!"   

"I don't think you killed them," Sherlock murmured, his voice low and threatening. "But I'm not ruling that possibility out just yet. Who are you protecting Oliver?" 

Just then there was a soft knock at the door before Oliver could answer, both Sherlock's and Oliver's eyes shooting to the door. 

"Come in," Oliver called out, relieved at the disturbance. 

That relief vanished the minute John stepped inside. 

"Oh," John uttered, his face paling to a sickly pallor beneath the bruises. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were busy. I'll just..." 

"How's the concussion John?" Sherlock mused, his eyes trained in on John's split lip. "You probably should've stayed home, exerting your brain with work will only set you back." 

"You need to get out of my office Holmes," Oliver snarled, his nostrils flaring. "You've got no right to be here." 

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John as he mused out loud, to no one in particular it seemed, but Oliver knew it was aimed at him. "Do you know how easy it is to give someone brain damage from attacking them with enough force?" 

A hand shot out and grabbed him by the front of his coat, a strong fist curled around the thick, expensive material. Sherlock met Oliver's blazing eyes with an amused tilt in his lips. "Quite the grip you have there Oliver. Enough to strangle someone to death before you set them ablaze?" 

"Are you deaf? I told you to get out!" Oliver growled. 

"It's like you all want the killer to stay roaming around for as long as possible," Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I could have you detained in a cell for as long as it takes Oliver. You know something." 

"This is absurd," Oliver muttered, pulling his coat on and moving away from the desk. "I don't have to co-operate with you. The police should send a real, legitimate detective to ask questions if they want to catch the killer. Not some manic, rude arsehole. Now, kindly get the fuck out of my office." 

Sherlock groaned in frustration and turned his on heel, throwing his last words over his shoulder as he left. "Fine. But I would keep an eye on your Sub, Oliver." 

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Oliver snapped, darting after Sherlock and pushing John aside. 

Sherlock paused, looking over his shoulder. "Turns out the killer may have a certain type. But you probably already know that, don't you?" 

Sherlock didn't care if it was petulant as he slammed the door behind him. 

John released a shaking exhale, staring in concern at Oliver. "What was that about?" 

Oliver shut his eyes, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing. Nothing at all. He's convinced that I know something." 

"And do you?" John asked hesitantly. 

"You think I'm lying too," Oliver accused him. "You think I killed all those people." 

"No!" John cried out, eyes wide. "Oliver, no. I know you don't have anything to do with all this, I know you don't. You're not a murderer." 

Oliver clenched his jaw, shaking head. "That bastard is trying to ruin my life." 

"Oliver, he's only trying to stop all of this, to end all these de-" 

"Why are you defending him?!" Oliver roared, his arm flying up and freezing in the mid air before coming down to strike John, who had flinched and recoiled in on himself. 

"Please," John breathed. "I'm sorry Oliver. I believe you over him, I know you haven't done anything."  

Oliver swallowed, slowly lowering his arm back down to his side. He stared at John, bewildered. "I... John, I wasn't..."

"Can we just go?" John pleaded, the look from his bruised, swollen eyes making Oliver's stomach churn. 

Oliver nodded tiredly, grim faced. He let John out and then locked his office door quickly, desperate to get out of the building and away from prying consulting detectives. Sherlock was quickly becoming a rather large thorn in his side. 

********************

Greg drummed his fingers on the table as Sherlock hunched himself over the profiles of the missing men. He'd stormed back to Scotland Yard with a face like thunder, radiating enough anger that even Donovan had retreated out of the way without a word.

Greg and Sally had managed to narrow down the missing people to all of the ones that looked like Craig Howard. They were all aged between 18 to 25, had varying shades of blonde hair, white skin and were gay. 

Sherlock grabbed his phone and began typing away furiously after looking over the papers after a grand total of 45 seconds. "We need to get in touch with all of their partners, or close friends." 

"Already have," Greg told him. "So you're sure these are the men that were killed?"

"Quite sure," Sherlock replied. "And their partners, they all confirmed that they were in D&S relationships?" 

"Yes, and the one who was single, Jamie Barton, he used to be in one and was also a member at the same club as the one you were investigating at the weekend." 

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and gazed at the darkening London sky through the window. "This just keeps coming to a dead end. The CCTV shows up blank, there's no DNA and every time I think I'm getting closer, everyone insists they don't know anything about the murders, and unfortunately I can't use torture to extract information from people." 

Greg nearly laughed at Sherlock's serious monotone, and the fact that he was completely serious about the whole torture thing. Greg often told himself that he had to laugh about these things, because if he didn't  he'd scream instead. 

"I think it's best if we all just take a fresh look at it tomorrow," Greg admitted tiredly, thinking longingly of a takeaway on the couch whilst watching the footie. 

Sherlock swiftly got to his feet, swiping up the papers with an unimpressed expression. "Yes, enjoy your poor choice of diarrhoea inducing takeaway and mindless football match tonight Lestrade, whilst I do your work for you." 

Greg didn't even ask him how he'd  worked out his plans for that evening and just shooed him out of the office with a begrudging thank you. 

******************

Your choice in men is rather appalling John - SH 

John stared at his mobile with bleary eyes, shielding it with his hand so that Oliver wouldn't wake up from the sudden disruptive burst of light in the darkened bedroom. Who the hell was texting him at three in the morning about his taste in men? 

Who is this? - JW 

Don't be dull John, I hate it when people are dull. I had high hopes that you were slightly more interesting than the average inhabitant of this country -SH 

The reply came almost seconds later. 

Sherlock? -JW

Congratulations -SH

John cursed under his breath and threw back the duvet, heading to the bathroom. As soon as he was in there, he locked the door behind him and saved Sherlock's number to his phone and hit the call button. John lowered himself down to sit on the edge of the closed toilet seat, rubbing his fingers cautiously over a startlingly blue bruise on his stomach. 

Sherlock picked up on the first ring. 

"John, I - " 

"No, just shut up," John hissed under his breath. "Shut up and listen." 

Sherlock sighed impatiently on the other end, but remained quiet. 

"You are out of your mind," John whispered angrily, glancing at the locked door. "I don't care what reason you have for fucking stealing my mobile number off me and texting me out of the blue like that, but it ends now before it goes any further." 

"I was being... considerate. Am I not allowed to enquire after your well being ?" 

"Why on earth would you feel the need to check up on me?" John demanded, incredulous. "You don't even know me." 

"Maybe because it was only a short while ago that you were passing out in my bed and throwing up on my shoes?" Sherlock suggested. 

John clenched his jaw, unable to find the patience to deal with Sherlock at this time in the morning. He was strongly contemplating just hanging up and turning his mobile off, maybe reporting Sherlock for harassment just to get the irritating git to sod off, but then...

But then, John spotted it. 

The panel that covered the side of bath was loose. John had never seen it like that before, not even when he'd snuck in the other day and found Oliver's house looking unusually unkempt. 

"John, I honestly think that you need to reconsider things with Oliver," Sherlock voice sounded through the phone, breaking him out of his daze. 

John ignored him, crouching down to the floor and peering at the panel. 

"John? Are you even listening to me?" 

"I need to go," John told him, reaching out to gently pry to panel away. "Don't get in touch with me again Sherlock." 

John stabbed the red button on his phone, hanging up and switching it to silent, because just as he suspected, Sherlock was calling him back already. John just  let it ring out. 

Moving the panel aside as slowly as possible, John held his breath, his heart thrashing against his ribcage like a frantic animal. 

Stashed underneath the bath and between the pipes underneath, were a dozen plastic ziplock bags. Peering at the insides of the bags, John could make out various mobile phones, items of clothing, wallets and... dear God, what was that? 

Teeth. Teeth, and blood and hair. 

All similar shades of dark, sandy blonde. John wanted to be sick. 

Scrambling for his phone, John broke out into a nervous sweat, calling Sherlock's number as quickly as possible. 

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded on the first ring. "What's wrong John?" 

"I found... I don't know what it is Sherlock. There's all sorts of bags with all these fucking clothes and teeth and mobiles and - " 

"What?" Sherlock hissed. "Where? Where are you?" 

"Oliver's house," John breathed, closing his eyes and pressing his lips together. 

"You need to get out," Sherlock told him firmly. "You're not safe John." 

"That's ridiculous, why wouldn't I be safe with Oliver?"

"You wouldn't have called me if you knew you weren't safe," Sherlock pointed out. "Do you remember where I live?" 

"Yes," John answered, swallowing. "But I don't understand Sherlock, what is all of this?" 

"The possessions of all the men who've died in the fires," Sherlock answered bluntly. "Actually, try and bring a bag with you to Baker Street. Preferably one that won't be noticeable if it's missing." 

"You want me to bring murder evidence to your house," John stated, dumbfounded. 

"Of course I do," Sherlock sighed. "There could be fingerprints or hair or any sort of DNA on the deceased's belongings. There are multiple things I may be able to discover from them." 

"This is insane," John scoffed. "There's probably some sort of explanation behind this. You're jumping to conclusions." 

"John," Sherlock said tersely, growing irked. "Just get over here, and bring a bag with you." 

"And what if Oliver catches me?" 

"Well, if he's as harmless as you insist upon saying he is, you shouldn't have to worry about that, should you?" Sherlock retorted bitterly. "I'll be waiting John."

The line went dead and John was left kneeling on the cold tiles staring under the bath as if the bags were about to leap out and bite him. 

*************************

John miraculously managed to exit Oliver's house without the man even stirring in his sleep. He'd gotten dressed and stuffed a bag inside his jacket before leaving. He'd also rooted in the back of Oliver's wardrobe and found an ancient t-shirt he'd never seen Oliver wear before, and had crammed it into a spare ziplock bag and tossed it in with the others under the bath. At a glance, it looked like nothing was amiss, and John just prayed to whatever divine beings that may exist in the universe that Oliver wouldn't notice the original bag was missing. 

The roads were deserted of taxis and John was too far away from the nearest tube station, so he set off on a brisk walk with his head down, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible. It clearly didn't work however, as a car was slowing down beside him. 

It was sleek and black with tinted out windows. The engine growled quietly and the streets lamps glinted off of the private registration plate fixed onto the vehicle. 

John ignored it, trying to keep his eyes on the floor and quickening his pace. The car continued to crawl alongside him, until eventually the rear window closest to him rolled down.

"Mr. Watson, please do get in," a voice politely called to him from the car. "I promise no harm will come to you." 

John whipped around to look upon one of the most peculiar looking men he'd ever seen. His voice alone shot John's senses to shit, what with the clear and stern authority in his tone. A pair of dark, glinting eyes were trained on him, and thin lips were pulled into somewhat of an amused smirk as the man watched him.

The car stopped, and the man opened the door for John. Hesitantly climbing inside, John felt his pulse race and his insides twist anxiously. 

"What do you want?" John demanded, convinced he'd lost all sense if he was willing enough to get into a car with a total stranger who knew his name, for some reason. 

The man with thinning chestnut hair just smiled pleasantly, falsely. "Simply to give you a lift to Baker Street. You're carrying precious cargo after all." 

"How do you know that?" 

"That's not of any importance," the man answered. "However, I would be grateful if you would take heed of some advice I have for you." 

"And why would I do that?" John snapped, clutching his jacket around him tighter, fidgeting as the man's sharp, guarded eyes observed his every movement." 

"Because you're intelligent enough to know that what you're getting yourself mixed up in may be very dangerous for you," the man replied cooly, sliding a finger over the immaculate looking umbrella resting over his lap. 

"I'm not getting myself mixed up in anything," John retaliated. "I don't know what it's got to do with you anyway." 

"Sherlock is of great concern to me," he sighed. "I like to familiarise myself with his ah, acquaintances." 

"I wouldn't even call myself an acquaintance of his," John replied dryly. "I'd rather not have anything to do with him." 

"And yet you're rushing to his assistance at nearly four o'clock in the morning with important murder evidence that could have you incarcerated if caught by the police," he murmured with that irritatingly calm smile. 

"I was hoping he'd get out of my life if I do this one thing for him," John snapped. "Whatever you think is going on with Sherlock and I, there's nothing to know. We don't even know each other." 

"But you know each other enough to warm his bed on occasion?" the man enquired, arching an eyebrow. 

"I was injured, that's all there is to it. He just did the decent thing and didn't leave me passed out on the pavement." 

 The car slowed to a stop, and John had never been more relieved. His hand shot out for the door handle and within seconds he was all but throwing himself out of the car. 

"Thanks for the lift," John muttered darkly, glowering at the man sat inside, who was watching him with a bemused expression. "Don't ever come near me again. Fucking creep." 

"Be careful John," the man murmured. 

With that the car pulled away, and John made his way to the front door. Just as he was about to retrieve his phone to let Sherlock know he was here, as he didn't think waking up the landlady by knocking would be polite, the door flew open. 

Sherlock looked furious, but said nothing. He simply grabbed John by the arm and hauled him inside. He didn't say a word, just scrutinised John from head to toe.

John could do nothing but follow him up the stairs to his flat in utter bewilderment as Sherlock turned dramatically, dressing gown flapping out behind him and his curls swinging in a disarray of shining ringlets. 

Outside, the sky was beginning to very slowly shift from an inky black canvas of stars and moonlight to the dull, sleepy blanket of grey clouds and weak sunlight.   
 


	7. No Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My life sort of went hectic, I'm sorry. I hope I can keep updates more regular.

Inside 221B, a single lamp was lit in the living room and the only other light source was the glow from Sherlock's laptop. The kitchen was dark, but there was a strange bubbling sound in the kitchen that was gradually becoming louder. 

"Sherlock, what's that noise?" John queried, heading to the kitchen slowly. 

Upon switching the kitchen light on, John took in the sight of a putrid yellow liquid bubbling furiously over the hob in a giant glass bowl. There was what appeared to be a strange, pale plant of some sort floating around in the bowl, which turned out to be an oddly shaped mushroom as John edged nearer. 

"No!" Sherlock cried, stabbing the light switch off furiously. "There's to be absolutely minimal light in the flat, especially the kitchen!" 

John blinked in the darkness. "Ok. What the fuck." 

"Experiment," Sherlock grumbled. "It's an extremely light sensitive specimen, won't react at all if the light conditions aren't prime." 

"Oh, of course, makes perfect sense that," John laughed in disbelief. "Never mind." 

John followed Sherlock back out into the living room and awkwardly sat himself down in the plush, comfy looking red armchair opposite the large, black leather one where Sherlock was sitting, his legs pulled up to his chest, his bare toes curling over the edge of the seat in an odd grip like vice. 

"Well?" Sherlock started, raising an eyebrow.  "What did he want?" 

"Who? The nut job who picked me up and drove me here?" 

"Mmm. Yes, him." 

"That I should apparently be careful with what I'm getting myself into and to basically ridicule me over the fact I apparently run around after your every whim." 

"He'll probably find you again and offer you money to spy on me when he does," Sherlock informed him. 

"Why on earth would he do that?" 

"He's my arch enemy," Sherlock replied with a startlingly wide and manic smile. "Now. The bag. Let me see it." 

John was more than happy to relinquish the bag into Sherlock's hands, glad to be rid of the evidence. Sherlock rose from his odd perch and drifted to the desk by the window, withdrawing a pair of blue medical gloves from the drawer and returning to empty the contents of the bag onto the floor. 

The bag contained a mobile phone, a crumpled red button up shirt, jeans, underwear and another clear, small bag. It was filled with bloodied teeth.

John kept his mouth firmly shut as Sherlock rifled through the items, holding the shirt up to the lamp light and examining it with squinted eyes.

"Magnifying glass, John," Sherlock demanded, going as far as to snap his fingers as he squinted at the shirt. 

"And where the bloody fuck am I going to find one of those?" John snapped in annoyance. 

"Under the couch somewhere," Sherlock mumbled dismissively, flapping his hand around in the general direction behind him. 

John found it sticking out of the Belstaff coat hanging on the back of the door. 

Sherlock grabbed it off him without a word and began looking at the red fabric clutched in his hands. A few seconds later and he was tossing it aside and looking at the jeans instead. 

Ripped, and not for fashion. Dragged across an uneven surface, looking at the angle and length of the tearing, victim had clearly struggled. Not drugged before dying then, which meant a toxicology report would have been useless anyway . No other damage. Speck of blood on button. Most likely victim's. Mobile: out of battery, cracked screen. Probable source of fingerprints, definitely for victim. Teeth: a trophy. Killer would have found ways to permanently destroy the teeth if he wanted all evidence gone. 

Sherlock sat back and frowned at the items in front of him. "How many other bags were there?" 

"I didn't count, but quite a few. Around five?" John replied, feeling sick. "Sherlock, what does this mean?" 

Sherlock turned his head to look at John,sweeping his eyes up and down the young man stood over him. John looked drained beneath his bruised face, a thin sheen of sweat beading over his skin. "We need to take this Barts. Run tests on them. Lestrade needs to take Oliver in for questioning." 

"Oliver didn't kill anyone though!" John protested, eyes wide. 

Standing swiftly, Sherlock stepped into his space, pleased at the hitch in John's breath as he did so. "Then how do you explain what you found?" 

"I don't know," John muttered bitterly, lowing his eyes. "But I know Oliver. He'd never... you have to believe me." 

"John," Sherlock murmured, gently wrapping his fingers around the warm tanned wrists so close to him. "He's not who you think he is. If he's capable of hurting you like he has without even batting an eyelid, is all of this really so hard to believe?" 

John ripped his wrists out of Sherlock hands. "You're the sick one, Sherlock. You're the one that goes butting in to crime scenes because you get a kick out of murder, the one who manipulates people in to bed and uses them and - " 

The kiss came out of nowhere, but it shut John up straight away, a startled shout dying in his throat as Sherlock's hands slid into his hair and cupped his face, moving as close as he could to John. Sherlock's tongue probed its way into John's mouth almost immediately, rubbing exquisitely against the roof of his mouth and tongue. Their slips slid together in a timed dance, a frantic, urgent tempo. 

Sherlock groaned into the kiss, sliding a hand down to snake his arm around John's waist, pulling their hips taut against each other as he carefully backed them against the wall. John fisted the front of Sherlock's dressing gown, the silk clenching between his trembling fingers whilst Sherlock pried apart John's legs with his own, nudging his tigh up between John's legs to meet his groin. 

John gasped as Sherlock ground his hips down and pushed his thigh up even further against his crotch simultaneously, hands flying to Sherlock's waist and squeezing. 

Then Oliver's face flashed before his closed eyes and brought him back down to earth. 

 John scrambled out of his hold, breathless from the kiss. He shoved Sherlock away as hard as he could, scrubbing the back of his hands furiously against his mouth in disgust. Sherlock stood in front of him with a blank face, blinking rapidly as his chest heaved and the flush in his smooth, sculpted alabaster cheeks withered away back to its usual marble complexion. 

"What do you think you're doing?!" John yelled. 

"You were spouting utter nonsense John, I had to shut you up one way or another," Sherlock replied dryly. "I'm going to Barts. Are you coming or running back off to your precious Oliver?" 

Heart pounding, John turned and marched for the door, livid with himself for letting this happening. "I'm getting away from you and that's all you need to know. Fuck you Sherlock!" 

The door slammed, and Sherlock found himself staring at the empty space where John had been stood for much longer than necessary. Chastising himself, he bundled the evidence back into the bag. The Work came first. The Work came first. Always. The Work... God, how could he have let it get this far? How on earth had John Watson managed to worm his way into Sherlock's head so easily? 

John could wait. Sherlock practically had Oliver in the palm of his hand now that the evidence was in his power. Reaching for his phone, Sherlock stabbed out a text to Lestrade before racing to get dressed and out the door. 

Get a warrant for Oliver Forrester's house. He needs to be taken in for questioning. Looks like we have our killer -SH

*************************

"I don't know what you think you're going to get out of this," Oliver spat, scraping his hands through his hair, glaring at the spinning tape recorder on the desk. 

"A confession, hopefully," Greg replied flatly. "An answer as to why we found bags of possessions belonging to four recently dead men in your home, now that would be nice." 

Oliver met Greg's eyes and folded his arms. "I didn't kill them." 

"Jamie Barton, Zachary King, Patrice Bonnaire and Craig Howard. All of them were reported missing over the past month, and every single one of them matched the dental records of the teeth we found in your house," Greg snapped. "Explain that to me if you would be so kind, Oliver." 

"I know...how it must look," Oliver began uncertainly, closing his eyes tiredly. "But I didn't kill them. There's not a single piece of my DNA on the evidence, is there?" 

"Listen mate," Greg laughed in disbelief. "Just because your fingerprints aren't on anything doesn't mean you didn't wipe them off." 

"How could I have wiped any prints if I've never even touched them?" Oliver growled, eyes swimming with contempt. 

"Right. Ok, so what you want me to believe is that someone else killed these men and decided to hide all the evidence in your home, and you have nothing to do with it whatsoever," Greg stated, deadpan. 

"Mmm," Oliver hummed in agreement. "You're going to arrest me no matter what I tell you, because you'll only believe what you want to hear." 

"What I want to hear is the truth!" 

"Well maybe you'd get the truth if you had the killer sat in front of you, and not me," Oliver sniped back. 

"Who is the killer then Oliver? If its not you, the only possible suspect who has more than a lot of incriminating evidence in his possession, who is it?" 

"That's not for me to say," Oliver shrugged. "He'll come forwards if and when he wants to." 

Greg sat back and narrowed his eyes at Oliver. "What are you not telling me?" 

"I know a lot of things that you want to know, Detective," Oliver scoffed, his eyes trailing up to the CCTV camera blinking overhead in the corner of the room. "Unfortunately, I can't tell you." 

"And why the hell can't you tell me?" Greg demanded. 

"I strongly dislike betrayal," Oliver murmured softly, his eyes flicking over to the one way window on his right. 

Behind the window, Sherlock's mouth turned down in a grim line. "He's just playing with Lestrade now." 

"He obviously did it," Sally insisted. "He's just trying to get himself out of it by bringing some mystery person in to this." 

"I don't think so," Sherlock disagreed, shaking his head. "He's protecting them both, himself and whoever actually killed those men." 

"Bullshit," Sally disagreed. "He's clearly lying, just look at him!" 

"How you ever rose to the position of Sergeant will forever be my greatest mystery Donovan," Sherlock snapped, turning away from the window. "Excuse me." 

"Freak," Sally muttered under her breath with glower as Sherlock strode away. 

Heading to the morgue, Sherlock pulled out his phone and called John. 

"I thought I told you not to call me Sherlock!" John cried exasperatedly on the other end, without even saying hello. 

"Oliver's in questioning over the murders," Sherlock told him. "I thought you should know." 

"He's... what did you do?!" 

"I did nothing John," Sherlock hissed. "If you want to argue over your perfect Oliver then go and have that conversation with the police officers who arrested him and searched his house, not me." 

"What's going to happen to him?" John pleaded. "Is he going to be ok?" 

"That's up to the court, if he gets sentenced and given a trial," Sherlock replied heartlessly. "John, I need to talk to you about something." 

"What could I possibly have to say to you?" 

"Oliver knows who killed those men, but he won't say who. You know him well enough to know who he's loyal to, who he would be protective over. Who's he covering up for?" 

"I... Listen Sherlock, I can't do this now," John told him, his voice cracking. "Can I see Oliver?" 

"When can you meet me?" Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I need to know who he's protecting!" 

"I don't know Sherlock, how could I possibly know? And if Oliver really is covering up fro someone, do you actually think he would tell me?!" 

"Fine," Sherlock snapped. "Thank you so much for being completely useless John, this is exactly what I need right now." 

"Useless?" John repeated, astounded. "Who was the one that got you those bags in Oliver's house in the first place Sherlock?" 

Sherlock stopped suddenly, eye widening. "His house. Let's see... Nearly two o'clock now... They'll be done searching by now, but they'll have tape up and perhaps an officer outside, you're far too incompetent to break in unoticed. His work office. Do you have access to it?" 

"Why?" John asked sharply. "Do you think there's the slightest chance he's stupid enough to leave evidence in his place of work?" 

"You need to go and look John," Sherlock told him grimly. "His computer. Look at his messages, emails. You won't be able to get into his house to do it right now." 

"I've got a class in ten minutes Sherlock, I'm not just going to skip it on some random request of yours," John protested. 

"Dear God, you're not one of those students who actually goes to every single class are you?" Sherlock mocked him, rolling his eyes. "John, don't make me say please. Look, this might help Oliver. There might be something in his emails." 

"Isn't that a job for police? Because then it's not actually, oh, you know, hacking? An invasion of privacy?" 

"Minor, irrelevant details John," Sherlock reprimanded him. "Just do it. Please." 

"Fine," John spat angrily. "But it's not for your sake or because you asked. It's for Oliver." 

John had hung up before Sherlock could even thank him. Not that he probably would have thanked him anyway, but still. 

*************************

Oliver's office was dark and stuffy when John entered it, the blinds closed tightly and a pregnant silence hanging in the thick air. It was like the very walls of the room held Oliver's eyes, and they knew John shouldn't be here. 

But if Oliver had really wanted to keep his office totally private, he wouldn't have given John a spare key, like he'd also done with his house. At least that's what John told himself. 

Flicking on the lamp sat on the desk, John lowered himself down to sit in the high backed swivel chair, drumming his fingers nervously on the desk as he waited for the computer to come to life. Logging in to Oliver's account took mere minutes, and John felt no guilt at all at the fact he'd peeked over Oliver's shoulder enough times to know the password he used for nearly everything. At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary in his inbox. 

Emails from other professors, social media accounts, clothes stores, the BDSM club they were members at, his brother... there was nothing at all. 

Clicking on the other files proved to be more successful. 

Oliver's account kept deleted emails unless the email was deleted twice, and the file was teeming with emails that made John's blood run cold. 

_12:52 a.m.   12th January 2015  
Sender: Private account_

_Oli,_  
I've tried everything. Everything to be enough for you but it's never worked. What does that brat have over me? It makes no sense. Why would you continuously choose to keep stringing him along when I'm here waiting for you with open arms. Just leave him Oli. You know it can't last. He's your student for fuck's sake.   
-A  

_14:27 p.m.  23rd February 2015  
Sender: Private account _

_It was so good to have you all to myself this weekend. It was perfect. More than I could ever have asked for. It never fails to amaze me how much I love you Oli. Everything about you makes me fall even more in love with you every time I see you. I just wish we were together more. The two of us all the time, and no John to worry about. I'm starting to think it's useless trying to persuade you to leave him.  
-A_

_21:06 p.m  28th February 2015  
Sender: Private account _

_How could you? After everything you said to me, about how much you love me, you went running straight back to that student whore of yours. I won't stop, Oliver. I love you. And I'm going to prove it to you. Just because he bends over for you and lets you slap him around, put a fucking dog lead on him, you think that he loves you? He can't ever come close to what we have. We were made for each other Oliver.  
-A_

John stared at the screen. Who the hell was this? 

It couldn't be real. Oliver wouldn't cheat on him. Was it even cheating though? Did Oliver even consider the two of them to be together? To owe each other any sort of faithfulness and integrity? 

No. Oliver wouldn't have been kept his relationship up with John nearly a whole year if he didn't think it was serious. 

So it was cheating. Ok. 

Now what emotion was John supposed to be feeling? Anger? Hurt? Betrayal? Guilt? He didn't know. He just felt blank. 

What did that even mean? 

The other emails were the same. All of them included hatred towards John, begging Oliver to leave him, how much he loved him.

 Until the ones from around a month or so ago. 

_08:44 a.m. 5th April 2015  
Sender: Private account_

_Did you like my present my love? I thought it was rather fitting. I wasn't joking when I said I would prove to you how much I love you. He screamed a lot, but I just had to ignore him. Does John scream like that for you? When you're tearing chunks out of his arse with a whip? I imagined you stood over me, watching the whole time I fucked that blonde slut and when I smothered him on the very bed I raped him on. The tooth pulling wasn't the nicest, but a small price to pay if it means I can keep giving you these presents without the police catching on. Don't forget how much I love you.  
-A_

John wasn't entirely sure how long he sat staring at the computer screen for, but he leapt out of his skin when his phone vibrated against the solid surface of Oliver's desk. 

John, where are you up to? -SH 

A thread of anger started to lace its way into John's blood stream and stabbed out a response to Sherlock.   
    
I've got what you wanted, I'll forward the emails to you if you give me your address. I hope you're fucking happy Sherlock -JW

The response came quickly, and it took seconds for John to forward months worth of spine chilling emails overflowing with obsession and hate and secrets to Sherlock. John logged off the computer, hastily wiped down the computer's mouse and keyboard of his prints and all but sprinted from Oliver's office. 


	8. Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me where I disappeared to because I don't even know myself. I'm most definitely going to be rusty getting back into writing this.

John decided that it would be a good idea to try and go about his every day routine as usual and pretend like nothing had happened. Granted he knew it was silly and childish, but it was too much for him. He went to all of his lectures as usual, went for nights out with his friends, and even swapped take aways and scrounging off Mike for cooking for himself. He also called Harry, which was a huge achievement for John, seeing as the last thing she'd said to him, or rather snarled, was "fuck off you miserable prick, I never want to see you ever again". It went well too, as Harry was even polite enough to enquire if he was eating enough and how uni was going. Nothing was mentioned about the murders, so John assumed she didn't know. Harry had blocked the outside world off from day one in rehab. She didn't watch the news or read newspapers, and could be totally oblivious to half the country blowing up she was that distanced from everything. She seemed a little better at least. 

John supposed he was just as bad as his older alcoholic sibling considering he was shutting everything out too, ignoring all the death and confusion that was going on around him. 

It lasted for all of four days, which was more than John had ever hoped for. Four blissfully peaceful, normal and boring days of no Sherlock, no Oliver, no mystery emails or arson or death or police interviews. That was until John arrived back to his flat on the fourth day after going for a few pints with his mates. Mike was staying over at Tracy's and the flat was dark and quiet. John entered the flat humming to himself, however the feeling of security slowly faded as he wandered further in to hear shuffling noises in his bedroom. What sounded like the clicking of a keyboard on a laptop drifted through the door and John froze to listen. 

"John, stop bloody standing there," an unforgettably irked voice called out. 

Cracking the door open and praying to whatever deity existed in the world, John hoped desperately that he wouldn't find the tall, brooding detective in his room, who was also now apparently a burglar. 

Of course his wishes were laughed at and Sherlock was perched on the end of John's bed, fingers flying away on the keyboard of his laptop. John was too tired and shocked to be pissed off Sherlock had broken into his flat and hacked his laptop. 

"Get off my laptop," John dead panned. "I could call the police you know, get a restraining order or something." 

"How boring," Sherlock drawled, not even bothering to meet John's eyes. 

"I'm being serious. Get off my laptop, it's private." 

"I've already read everything anyway so you may as well let me keep it," Sherlock told him with an eye roll. 

John slammed the door behind him as he entered his room properly, sighing heavily. "What are you even looking for?" 

"None of your business," Sherlock replied sourly. 

"Are you fucking serious?" John asked in bewilderment. 

Sherlock ignored him and continued typing and scrolling away. John didn't even want to know what he was doing to be completely honest, and instead gave up and flopped into the chair at his desk. He sat watching Sherlock, who didn't even acknowledge his presence. John worked out after a couple of minutes that Sherlock was utterly pissed off with him. Probably for ignoring the endless onslaught of texts and calls he'd been sending John, and it had resulted in this huffy and childish display of annoyance. 

"Are you waiting for me to apologise or something?" John enquiried, nearly scoffing. 

"I don't need an apology from you of all people," Sherlock spat, sounding disgusted. 

The detective slammed the laptop closed and carelessly moved it to the floor. Some sort of intense staring match ensued after that, and John wasn't sure if he wanted to get up and run or sag to his knees in front of him. 

"This is extremely tedious for me John," Sherlock informed him through gritted teeth, rising to his feet swiftly. "You really are testing me." 

"What on earth are you - "

"You know exactly what I mean. You're acting like you haven't picked up on this thing between us and I'm sick of waiting for you." 

John stared, dumbfounded. 

Sherlock crossed the short space between them and crowded John in the chair, placing his hands on each arm of the piece of furniture and leaning down to bring their faces inches apart. 

"I'll lay it out simply for you, seeing as anything above the obvious is unfathomable for your tiny stupid brain. I want you and I know that despite all your hesitance and trying to convince yourself otherwise, you want me too. So either let me in John and let me change every single thing about this life that you know for the better or tell me right now this isn't what you want." 

"I...Sherlock, you can't just drop that on me when I haven't seen you in days and it's totally out of the blue! Nothing has even happened between us to make anything out of it!" John insisted, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Cool, slender fingers encaged John's chin in a steely grip and John could see the storm rolling around in those thunderous grey eyes. "Do you honestly believed nothing has happened between us?" 

John slowly nodded, his heart fluttering at the snarl forming across Sherlock's beautiful chiselled face. 

"You really are an idiot." 

"Then explain. What do you think has happened between us that warrants you turning up and demanding me to choose to be with you?" John exclaimed. 

"I have never felt such a deep sexual connection with anyone John and I want you more than I want any old crime to solve. I live for this Work, it's what I do. But you, I crave you more than I've ever craved any drug or cigarette my body has consumed. That night at the club, it was a brief glimpse into what we could have and you know it too. I wouldn't have taken you back to Baker Street after you nearly passed out at Barts if I didn't care for you. I wouldn't have made that phone call to Oliver threatening him if you didn't mean something and I certainly wouldn't have gotten that bastard put in jail so I can have my chance of making you mine."

John simply stared. 

Sherlock sighed heavily. "This, whatever it is John, it would be a lie if you said you hadn't thought about it too. The only way for me to be able to function again normally is to have you. Do you understand? Can you not see that I can't get through my day properly because you just sneak into my thoughts every single time?" 

"Sherlock, this isn't... it's not healthy for you. I'm not what you need. We don't work. Yeah, sure I think about what being your sub would be like, countless times a day. But outside the bedroom, we hate each other. We can't stand to be in the same room as each other." 

Sherlock looked deflated, like John had wickedly just popped his balloon of hope with a sharp needle. The rejection and hurt in Sherlock's eyes lasted for a moment before the shield was back and the same usual frosty expression returned to his face. 

"I see," Sherlock sniped. "I take it you don't want anything to do with this case anymore as well?" 

"I just want Oliver back," John admitted meekly. 

Sherlock lurched away from him then. "How could you possibly want him back in your life?" 

John tensed at the anger coming from Sherlock. 

"All that he did was rape you, convince you that what he was doing was playing the role of dominant when in reality he just used you! He may as well have gotten a sodding blow up sex doll John because that's all you were to him! A fucking toy for him to beat and abuse and belittle, because that sorry excuse of a human being can only feel important about himself by bringing you down! You, when you're so bright and beautiful and full of potential and he just wants to ruin you!" Sherlock yelled, his chest heaving with fuming breaths. 

"Sherlock - " 

"No John! He was using you because you were so innocent and stupid! He took advantage of what you are and it makes my blood boil. Knowing this is what you turned out to be, knowing that if I'd only met you a year earlier what I could have done with you. How much I could have helped you grow and explore and become something even more perfect." 

"I don't understand what you want from me Sherlock," John whispered, tears building up slowly in his eyes. 

"I want to tie you down and make you feel things in ways you didn't know where possible," Sherlock seethed. "I want to make you feel every nerve in your body sing as you beg for me and feel everything at my hand, because of me, because I chose for you to feel it. I want you to let me consume you and take you apart into little pieces and then put you back together again, whilst you're questioning everything you thought you knew. I want you, John Watson, in every single way that's physically and mentally possible." 

John just hoped that the 'yes, please God yes' was conveyed through the searing kiss that he gave to Sherlock, reaching up to the man and wrapping his arms around him like he was the only thing keeping him on the ground at the point. 

Sherlock wasted no time in carrying him to bed.


	9. Halves

In the back of his mind, John was vaguely aware that he should be ever so slightly pissed off at the fact Sherlock had ripped one of his favourite shirts in the process of hungrily undressing him, and had probably somehow damaged his jeans too, probably every other item of clothing John had been wearing to be honest, but even the simplicity of Sherlock's lips against his neck were enough to keep those irritated thoughts barricaded firmly at the back of his mind. Sherlock's mouth seared against his jugular, burnt down his collar bone. It was wonderful, that kind of wonderful that came about when John switched off and released every inch of control over to someone else. His mind stopped ticking, he stopped worrying and stressing over every single occurrence that had happened, was happening and ever would happen. He could breathe properly again and achieve that clarity he only reached through the salvation and rebirth that offering himself up in the act of sex gave. 

Sherlock watched in total awe and fascination as John's cheeks flushed the most delightful hue of reddish pink and his lips parted to release soft gasps as Sherlock bit down on the firm, smooth skin that mapped out over John's hipbone. Pushing John's legs up to bend at the knees, Sherlock hummed in satisfaction as he sunk his teeth into the soft, golden skin on the back of John's thighs. He wanted to devour John. John whimpered as Sherlock dragged his tongue over John's balls and downwards, stopping just before he reached the tight puckered skin he intended to delve his tongue into shortly. 

"Sherlock," John sighed softly. "I-" 

John bit down on his lip to stop the yelp escaping his mouth as sharp teeth locked down on the delicate skin of his thighs again. 

"Address me properly or I will put you over my knee and make sure your arse is the reddest it has ever been and leave you begging me for an orgasm," Sherlock hissed inbetween a mouthful of skin. 

"I'm sorry Sir," John replied through gritted teeth. 

"Better." 

John was expecting another bite from Sherlock but instead received a slow, warm stroke of Sherlock's tongue over his hole. It was possibly one of the gentlest movements John had ever felt from Sherlock. The almost tender, careful licks continued, eliciting soft little moans from John. It was slightly bizarre, being on the receiving end of a display of such gentleness from Sherlock, and John was most definitely enjoying it. The urgency of Sherlock's tongue increased, and the careful licks transformed into something more urgent and hungry. Sherlock began working him open with his tongue, prying past the tight skin of John's entrance and gradually entering him. The heat inside of him was enough to make him gasp and twist his fingers in his bed sheets, which made Sherlock smirk and delve his tongue in deeper, spitting over the gorgeous pink skin he was presented with before placing his mouth wide open over John's hole to lavish his tongue all over him and teasingly push in and out. John began to squirm as Sherlock trailed a finger over his entrance, gradually slipping in alongside his tongue to slowly fuck him. John bit down hard enough to taste blood in his mouth as Sherlock pushed another finger besides his forefinger and tongue, stretching him open a little more. 

"Are you enjoying yourself John?" Sherlock mused from between his legs, grinning that glinting, predatory smile. 

"Yes Sir," John whimpered. "Thank you Sir." 

"Good boy," Sherlock murmured, spitting over his fingers before adding a third finger to slowly push in and out of John. 

Sherlock sat up on his knees, watching in satisfaction as John squirmed helplessly as he ever so slowly dragged his fingers in and out, purposely skimming just around his prostate and missing every time. He carried on with this until John was sweating, begging him with his eyes, panting and whimpering. 

"You want it so badly, don't you?" Sherlock laughed softly. "Beautiful little whore. Tell me then John. Tell me what you want." 

"I want you to... I-I want you to rub my prostate," John mumbled, flushing a deeper shade of red across his cheeks. 

The sharp, stinging slap across the back of his thighs made John jolt and cry out, but then moan in pleasure as the motion brought his prostate into contact with all three of Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock held his fingers there, staring John dead in the eye. 

"That's not how we ask for things that we want, is it John?" Sherlock asked slowly, carefully. "Use your manners." 

"Please Sir," John corrected himself. "Please can you rub my prostate Sir?" 

Sherlock continued to stare at him, his face blank and guarded. "No. Another time." 

John groaned in frustration and began to sit up, opening his mouth to beg, only to be grabbed around the throat by a single, muscular hand and pinned back down on the bed. Sherlock withdrew his fingers from his hole and lowered his face to John's and locked eyes with him. The other hand gripped one of his thighs, holding so tightly John was sure it would bruise. The thought of Sherlock leaving marks on him only made his cock twitch. 

"I'm going to fuck you instead," Sherlock breathed gently. "I'm going to fuck you into the mattress until you're begging me to make you come." 

John moaned at the mere words, nodding fervently. "Yes, thank you Sir, please, thank you -" 

Sherlock silenced him with a smothering kiss, pushing his tongue into John's mouth. The hand around his throat and the hand around his thigh disappeared as Sherlock lent over and grabbed the bottle of lube on the floor John had carelessly left there from his last sexual escapade with Oliver. John's chest heaved with anticipation as Sherlock squeezed a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, sliding back into John again with ease and drawing out a soft, long moan from John. He worked him open quickly with his slim, dexterous fingers before coating his own dick in lube. 

"Are you... Sir?" 

"I know that you're clean, I've checked your medical records and previous partners, Oliver was also clean. I've never had a sexually transmitted disease in my life and detest condoms. Are you happy for me to fuck your brains out now John?" Sherlock replied dryly. 

John, dumbfounded and feeling a little bit stupid, simply nodded and blushed. Sherlock stretched upwards and kissed him softly this time, slipping a hand around the back of John's neck and cradling the base of his skull. 

"You don't have to worry John; I'm going to look after you," Sherlock told him serenely, kissing under his jawline. 

John wasn't sure how he felt about what Sherlock had just said, knowing full well that Sherlock meant that statement in more than one way. It made him uncomfortable, simply because John didn't know how to react to it. How was he meant to fucking behave around someone that wanted to care for him and look after him at the same time as tying him up and whipping him? He was so used to the harsh treatment Oliver gave him that it scared him a little bit, the thought of Sherlock being affectionate as well as brutal with him. 

He didn't have much longer to ponder on those thoughts, as Sherlock aligned his cock and slid effortlessly into John in one swift movement. 

"Oh," John breathed out almost silently, curling his fingernails into the firm, muscular skin of Sherlock's marble back. 

Sherlock merely grinned and buried his teeth in John's neck, rocking his hips forwards gently as his hands pinned John beneath him. It was almost alien, the gentleness Sherlock displayed to him and John didn't know whether to question how carefully he was being fucked or to simply enjoy this new sensation. It felt beyond good, this slow sweetness that spread warmth all along his groin and up his spine, his cock straining up against his stomach and weeping as Sherlock tenderly rolled his hips and moved, kissing and nipping at his neck. John wondered if this was what it felt like to have someone make love to you, and he found himself wanting it again desperately if he ever got the chance. Sherlock began quietly moaning into his neck, sweat beginning to drip down his back and chest whilst the motion of hips hips began to speed up. 

"Christ you feel fucking amazing," Sherlock panted into John's ear. 

John was about to reply but as he opened his mouth Sherlock slipped two of his fingers past his lips, sliding them down his throat and curling them against his tongue. John moaned and sucked hard on the two digits, breathing heavily through his nose. 

Sherlock's thrusts became much more frantic and persistent, speeding up much more and driving into John's prostate at an almost unbearable force it was so good. John's eyes rolled back into his head with each thrust of Sherlock's hips, groaning loudly when his fingers wrapped around John's cock and began to hastily move up and down in time to match the speed of Sherlock's hips. 

Sherlock swallowed the half scream, half moan that fell from John's lips as he came with a heated kiss, strings of hot white come striping up his torso. John lay limp and breathless as Sherlock fucked him even harder into the mattress, grunting with excursion as his hips stuttered into a series of jerky movements, moaning deeply as he finally came. John revelled in the feel of the warm liquid filling his insides, simply because it was Sherlock's. 

He slowly pulled out of John, admiring the bruises littered over his thighs and neck and the look of complete debauchery on John's face as he lay there gasping for breath and covered in come. Sherlock simply collapsed next to him, the two of them staring at the patchy ceiling of John's bedroom as their fingers tiredly intertwined with each other.


End file.
